THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 
Jo  Sterling 


C     NK 


OF          Hi 


i      C      F: 


AND  OTHER   POEMS 
WORTH    READING 


BY 

EUGENE  FIELD 


CHICAGO 

M.  A.  DONOHUE  &  CO: 

407-429  DEARBORN  ST. 


PS 


INTRODUCTION. 


From  whatever  point  of  view  the  character  ot 
Eugene  Field  is  seen,  genius — rare  and  quaint 
presents  itself  is  childlike  simplicity.  That  he 
was  a  poet  of  keen  perception,  of  rare  discrimina 
tion,  all  will  admit.  He  was  a  humorist  as  deli 
cate  and  fanciful  as  Artemus  Ward,  Mark  Twain, 
Bill  Nye,  James  Whitcomb  Riley,  Opie  Read,  or 
Bret  Harte  in  their  happiest  moods.  Within 
him  ran  a  poetic  vein,  capable  of  being  worked 
in  any  direction,  and  from  which  he  could,  at  will, 
extract  that  which  his  imagination  saw  and  felt 
most.  That  he  occasionally  left  the  child-world, 
in  which  he  longed  to  linger,  to  wander  among 
the  older  children  of  men,  where  intuitively  the 
hungry  listener  follows  him  into  his  Temple  of 
Mirth,  all  should  rejoice,  for  those  who  knew  him 
not,  can  while  away  the  moments  imbibing  the 
genius  of  his  imagination  in  the  poetry  and  prose 
here  presented. 

Though  never  possessing  an  intimate  acquaint 
anceship  with  Field,  owing  largely  to  the  dis 
parity  in  our  ages,  still  there  existed  a  bond  of 

3 


857346 


4  INTRODUCTION 

friendliness  that  renders  my  good  opinion  of  him 
in  a  measure  trustworthy.  Born  in  the  same 
city,  both  students  in  the  same  college,  engaged 
at  various  times  in  newspaper  work  both  in  St. 
Louis  and  Chicago,  residents  of  the  same  ward, 
with  many  mutual  friends,  it  is  not  surprising 
that  I  am  able  to  say  of  him  that  "the  world  is 
better  off  that  he  lived,  not  in  gold  and  silver  or 
precious  jewels,  but  in  the  bestowal  of  priceless 
truths,  of  which  the  possessor  of  this  book  be 
comes  a  benefactor  of  no  mean  share  of  his 
estate." 

Every  lover  of  Field,  whether  of  the  songs  of 
childhood  or  the  poems  that  lend  mirth  to  the 
out-pouring  of  his  poetic  nature,  will  welcome 
this  unique  collection  of  his  choicest  wit  and 
humor. 

CHARLES  WALTER  BROWN. 

Chicago,  January,  1905. 


COPYRIGHTED  1905 

BY 

M.  A.  DONOHUE  &  Co. 


Contents 


THE  CLINK  OF  THE   ICE  ......................  25 

SISTER'S    CAKE  ..............................  29 

CRUMPETS  AND  TEA  ..........................  34 

"  RARE  ROAST  BEEF  "  .......................  37 

MRS.  REILLY'S   PEACHES  .....................  41 

THE  PNEUMOGASTRIC  NERVE  ..................  43 

THE  CAFE  MOLINEAU  ........................  45 

A  NEW  BRAND  OF  CIGARS  ....................  47 

THE  ONION  TART  ............................  48 

A  WESTERN  BOY'S   LAMENT  ..................  51 

SEEIN'  THINGS  ...............................  52 

OUR  WHIPPINGS  .............................  55 

THE  SNAKES  THAT  ROWDY  SAW  ...............  59 

PROFESSOR  VERE  DE  BLAW  ...................  63 

THE  RIME  OF  THE  CROW   EATER  .............  72 

THE  AGED  HOUSEWIFE'S  PRAYER  .............  78 

DUTCH  LULLABY  .............................  79 

JAPANESE  LULLABY  ...........................  81 

NORSE  LULLABY  .............................  83 

CORSICAN  LULLABY  ...........................  84 

ORKNEY  LULLABY  ......  ,  86 


PAGE 

JEWISH  LULLABY 88 

ARMENIAN  LULLABY 90 

CORNISH    LULLABY 92 

MOTHER  AND   CHILD 94 

THE  Two  LITTLE  SKEEZUCKS 95 

NIGHTFALL  IN  DORDRECHT 99 

THE   STORK 101 

AT  PLAY 103 

THE  ENGLISH  MINCE   PIE 105 

OUR  BOY 1 16 

THREE   BOYS 121 

THE  MOTHER-IN-LAW , . .   125 

THE  TRAGEDIE  OF  ELAINE 128 

ALWAYS  RIGHT 135 

MR.  BILLINGS  OF  LOUISVILLE 136 

THE  MIDWAY 137 

INTER-STATE  COMMERCE 138 

FISHERMAN  JIM'S  KIDS 140 

REV.  SAM  SMALL  AND  REV.  SAM  JONES —   142 


ttbe  Clfnfc  of  tbe  fee 


Notably  fond  of  music,  I  dote  on  a  sweeter 

tone 
Than  ever  the  harp  has  uttered  or  ever  the 

lute  has  known. 
When  I  wake  at  five  in  the  morning  with  a 

feeling  in  my  head 
Suggestive  of  mild  excesses  before  I  retired 

to  bed; 
When  a  small   but  fierce  volcano  vexes  me 

sore  inside, 
And  my  throat  and  mouth  are  furred  with  a 

fur  that  seemeth  a  buffalo  hide,  — 
How  gracious  those  dews  of  solace  that  over 

my  senses  fall 
At  the  clink  of  the  ice  in  the  pitcher  the  boy 

brings  up  the  hall  ! 

Oh,  is  it  the  gaudy  ballet,  with  features  I  can 

not  name, 
That  kindles  in  virile  bosoms  that  slow  but 

devouring  flame  ? 
Or  is  it  the  midnight  supper,  eaten  before  we 

retire, 

as 


26  THE   CLINK   OF   THE   ICE 

That  presently  by  combustion  setteth  us  all 

afire? 
Or  is   it   the  cheery  magnum, — nay,  I'll   not 

chide  the  cup 
That  makes  the  meekest  mortal  anxious  to 

whoop  things  up: 
Yet,  what  the  cause  soever,  relief  comes  when 

we  call, — 
Relief  with  that  rapturous  clinkety-clink  that 

clinketh  alike  for  all. 


I've  dreamt  of  the  fiery  furnace  that  was  one 

vast  bulk  of  flame, 
And  that  I  was  Abednego  a-wallowing  in  that 

same  ; 
And  I've  dreamt  I  was  a  crater,  possessed  of  a 

mad  desire 
To  vomit  molten  lava,  and  to  snort  big  gobs 

of  fire  ; 
I've  dreamt  I  was  Roman  candles  and  rockets 

that  fizzed  and  screamed, — 
In  short,  I  have  dreamt  the  cussedest  dream 

that  ever  a  human  dreamed: 
But  all   the    red-hot   fancies  were    scattered 

quick  as  a  wink 
When    the    spirit   within    that    pitcher  went 

clinking  its  clinkety-clink. 


THE   CLINK   OF   THE   ICE  27 

Boy,  why  so  slow  in  coming  with  that  gracious, 

saving  cup  ? 
Oh,  haste  thee  to  the  succor  of  the  man  who 

is  burning  up ! 
See  how  the  ice  bobs  up  and  down,  as  if  it 

wildly  strove 
To  reach  its  grace  to  the  wretch  who  feels  like 

a  red-hot  kitchen  stove  ! 
The  piteous  clinks  it  clinks  methinks  should 

thrill  you  through  and  through: 
An  erring  soul  is  wanting  drink,  and  he  wants 

it  p.  d.  q. ! 
And,  lo !  the  honest  pitcher,  too,  falls  in  so  dire 

a  fret 
That  its  pallid  form  is  presently  bedewed  with 

a  chilly  sweat. 


May  blessings  be  showered  upon  the  man  who 
first  devised  this  drink 

That  happens  along  at  five  a.m.  with  its  rap 
turous  clinkety-clink ! 

I  never  have  felt  the  cooling  flood  go  sizzling 
down  my  throat 

But  what  I  vowed  to  hymn  a  hymn  to  that 
clinkety-clink  devote ; 

So  now,  in  the  prime  of  my  manhood,  I  polish 
this  lyric  gem 


28  THE  CLINK   OF  THE   ICE 

For  the    uses  of  all  good  fellows  who   are 

thirsty  at  five  a.m., 
But    specially  for    those   fellows    who    have 

known  the  pleasing  thrall 
Of  the  clink  of  the  ice  in  the  pitcher  the  boy 

brings  up  the  hall. 


Sister's  Cafce 


I'd  not  complain  of  Sister  Jane,  for  she  was 

good  and  kind, 
Combining  with   rare   comeliness    distinctive 

gifts  of  mind  ; 
Nay,  I'll  admit  it  were  most  fit  that,  worn  by 

social  cares, 
She'd  crave  a  change  from  parlor  life  to  that 

below  the  stairs, 
And  that,  eschewing  needlework  and   music, 

she  should  take 
Herself  to  the  substantial  art  of  manufacturing 

cake. 

At  breakfast,  then,  it  would  befall  that  Sister 

Jane  would  say: 
"Mother,  if  you  have  got  the  things,  I'll  make 

some  cake  to-day  !" 
Poor  mother'd  cast  a  timid  glance  at  father, 

like  as  not  — 
For  father  hinted  sister's  cooking  cost  a  fright 

ful  lot— 


30  SISTER'S  CAKE 

But  neither  she  nor  he  presumed  to  signify  dis 
sent, 

Accepting  it  for  gospel  truth  that  what  she 
wanted  went! 


No  matter  what  the  rest  of  'em  might  chance 

to  have  in  hand, 
The  whole  machinery  of  the  house  came  to  a 

sudden  stand; 
The  pots  were  hustled  off  the  stove,  the  fire 

built  up  anew, 
With  every  damper  set  just  so  to  heat  the  oven 

through; 
The  kitchen-table  was  relieved  of  everything, 

to  make 
That  ample  space  which  Jane  required  when 

she  compounded  cake. 


And,  oh !  the  hustling  here  and  there,  the  fly 
ing  to  and  fro; 

The  click  of  forks  that  whipped  the  eggs  to 
lather  white  as  snow — 

And  what  a  wealth  of  sugar  melted  swiftly  out 
of  sight — 

And  butter?  Mother  said  such  waste  would 
ruin  father,  quite ! 


SISTER'S  CAKE  31 

But  Sister  Jane  preserved  a  mien  no  pleading 

could  confound 
As  she  utilized  the  raisins  and  the  citron  by 

the  pound. 

Oh,  hours  of  chaos,  tumult,  heat,  vexatious  din 

and  whirl ! 

Of  deep  humiliation  for  the  sullen  hired-girl; 
Of  grief    for  mother,   hating  to    see   things 

wasted  so, 
And  of  fortune  for  that  little  boy  who  pined  to 

taste  that  dough ! 
It  looked  so  sweet  and  yellow — sure,  to  taste 

it  were  no  sin — 
But,  oh!    how  sister  scolded  if  he  stuck  his 

finger  in ! 

The  chances  were  as  ten  to  one,  before  the 
job  was  through, 

That  sister'd  think  of  something  else  she'd 
great  deal  rather  do ! 

So,  then,  she'd  softly  steal  away,  as  Arabs  in 
the  night, 

Leaving  the  girl  and  ma  to  finish  up  as  best 
they  might; 

These  tactics  (artful  Sister  Jane)  enabled  her 
to  take 

Or  shift  the  credit  or  the  blame  of  that  too- 
treacherous  cake ! 


32  SISTER'S  CAKE 

And  yet,  unhappy  is  the  man  who  has  no  Sis 
ter  Jane — 

"For  he  who  has  no  sister  seems  to  me  to  live 
in  vain. 

1  never  had  a  sister — may  be  that  is  why  to-day 

I'm  wizened  and  dyspeptic,  instead  of  blithe 
and  gay; 

A  boy  who's  only  forty  should  be  full  of  romp 
and  mirth, 

But  /  (because  I'm  sisterless)  am  the  oldest 
man  on  earth ! 

Had  I  a  little  sister — oh,  how  happy  I  should 

be! 
I'd  never  let  her  cast  her  eyes  on  any  chap  but 

me; 
I'd  love  her  and  I'd  cherish  her  for  better  and 

for  worse — 
I'd  buy  her  gowns  and  bonnets,  and  sing  her 

praise  in  verse; 
And — yes,  what's  more,  and   vastly  more — I 

tell  you  what  I'd  do: 
I'd  let  her  make  her  wondrous  cake,  and  I 

would  eat  it,  too ! 

I  have  a  high  opinion  of  the  sisters,  as  you 

see — 
Another  fellow's  sister  is  so  very  dear  to  me  1 


SISTER'S  CAKE  33 

I  love  to  work  anear  her  when  she's  making 

over  frocks, 
When   she   patches   little    trousers   or    darns 

prosaic  socks; 
But  I  draw  the  line  at  one  thing — yes,  I  don 

my  hat  and  take 
A  three  hours'  walk  when  she  is  moved  to  try 

her  hand  at  cake ! 


Crumpets  an&  TTea 


There  are  happenings  in  life  that  are  destined 

to  rise 
Like   dear,  hallowed  visions  before  a  man's 

eyes; 
And  the  passage  of  years  shall  not  dim  in  the 

least 

The  glory  and  joy  of  our  Sabbath-day  feast  — 
The  Sabbath-day  luncheon  that's  spread  for  us 

three  — 

My  worthy  companions,  Teresa  and  Leigh, 
And  me,  all  so  hungry  for  crumpets  and  tea. 

There  are  cynics  who  say  with  invidious  zest 
That    a  crumpet's    a  thing  that   will    never 

digest; 

But  I  happen  to  know  that  a  crumpet  is  prime 
For  digestion,  if  only  you  give  it  its  time. 
Or  if,  by  a  chance,  it  should  not  quite  agree, 
Why,  who  would  begrudge  a  physician  his  fee 
For  plying  his  trade  on  crumpets  and  tea  ? 

To  toast  crumpets  quite  a  la  mode,  I  require 
A  proper  long  fork  and  a  proper  quick  fire; 

34 


CRUMPETS  AND  TEA  35 

And,  when  they  are  browned,  without  further 

ado 
I  put  on  the  butter,  that  soaks  through  and 

through. 

And  meantime  Teresa,  directed  by  Leigh, 
Compounds  and  pours  out  a  rich  brew  for  us 

three; 
And  so  we  sit  down  to  our  crumpets — and  tea. 

A  hand-organ  grinds  in  the  street  a  weird  bit, — 
Confound  those  Italians!  I  wish  they  would 

quit 

Interrupting  our  feast  with  their  dolorous  airs, 
Suggestive  of  climbing  the  heavenly  stairs. 
(It's  thoughts  of  the  future,  as  all  will  agree, 
That  we  fain  would  dismiss  from  our  bosoms 

when  we 
Sit  down  to  discussion  of  crumpets  and  tea!) 

The  Sabbath-day  luncheon   whereof    I  now 

speak 

Quite  answers  its  purpose  the  rest  of  the  week; 
Yet  with  the  next  Sabbath  I  wait  for  the  bell 
Announcing  the  man  who  has  crumpets  to 

sell; 

Then  I  scuttle  downstairs  in  a  frenzy  of  glee, 
And   purchase   for    sixpence    enough   for   us 

three, 
Who  hunger  and  hanker  for  crumpets  and  tea. 


36  CRUMPETS  AND  TEA 

But  soon — ah!  too  soon — I  must  bid  a  farewell 
To  joys  that  succeed  to  the  sound  of  that  bell, 
Must    hie    me  away  from    the  dank,   foggy 

shore 
That's  filled  me  with  colic  and — yearnings  for 

more! 

Then  the  cruel,  the  heartless,  the  conscience 
less  sea 

Shall  bear  me  afar  from  Teresa  and  Leigh 
And  the  other  twin  friendships   of  crumpets 
and  tea. 

Yet  often,  ay,  ever,  before  my  wan  eyes 
That  Sabbath-day  luncheon  of  old  shall  arise. 
My  stomach,  perhaps,  shall  improve  by  the 

change, 

Since  crumpets  it  seems  to  prefer  at  long  range; 
But,  oh,  how  my  palate  will  hanker  to  be 
In  London  again  with  Teresa  and  Leigh, 
Enjoying  the  rapture  of  crumpets  and  tea  t 


"IRare  IRoast  Beef" 


When  the  numerous  distempers  to  which  all 
flesh  is  heir 

Torment  us  till  our  very  souls  are  reeking  with 
despair; 

When  that  monster  fiend,  Dyspepsy,  rears  its 
spectral  hydra  head, 

Filling  bon  vivants  and  epicures  with  certain 
nameless  dread; 

When  any  ill  of  body  or  of  intellect  abounds, 

Be  it  sickness  known  to  Galen  or  disease  un 
known  to  Lowndes, — 

In  such  a  dire  emergency  it  is  my  firm  belief 

That  there  is  no  diet  quite  so  good  as  rare 
roast  beef. 

And  even  when  the  body's  in  the  very  prime 

of  health, 
When  sweet  contentment  spreads  upon   the 

cheeks  her  rosy  wealth, 
And  when  a  man  devours  three  meals  per  day 

and  pines  for  more, 
37 


38  "RARE  ROAST  BEEF" 

And  growls  because,  instead  of  three  'square 
meals,  there  are  not  four,— 

Well,  even  then,  though  cake  and  pie  do  serv 
ice  on  the  side, 

And  coffee  is  a  luxury  that  may  not  be 
denied, 

Still,  of  the  many  viands,  there  is  one  that's 
hailed  as  chief, 

And  that,  as  you  are  well  aware,  is  rare  roast 
beef. 


Some  like  the  sirloin,  but  I  think  the  porter 
house  is  best, — 
'Tis  juicier  and  tenderer  and  meatier  than  the 

rest; 
Put  on  this  roast  a  dash  of  salt,  and  then  of 

water  pour 
Into  the  sizzling  dripping-pan  a  cupful,  and  no 

..    more; 
The  oven  being  hot,  the  roast  will  cook  in  half 

an  hour; 
Then  to  the  juices  in  the  pan  you  add  a  little 

flour, 
And  so  you  get  a  gravy  that  is  called  the  cap 

sheaf 
Of  that  glorious  summum  bonum,  rare  roast 

beef. 


"RARE  ROAST  BEEF" 


39 


Served  on  a  platter  that  is  hot,  and  carved 

with  thin,  keen  knife, 
How  does  this  savory  viand  enhance  the  worth 

of  life ! 
Give  me  no  thin  and  shadowy  slice,  but  a  thick 

and  steaming  slad- 
Who  would  not  choose  a  generous  hunk  to  a 

bloodless  little  dab  ? 
Upon   a  nice  hot  plate  how  does  the  juicy 

morceau  steam, 
A    symphony  in  scarlet  or  a  red  incarnate 

dream! 
Take  from  me  eyes  and  ears  and  all,  O  Time, 

thou  ruthless  thief ! 
Except  these  teeth  wherewith  to   deal  with 

rare  roast  beef. 


Most  every  kind  and  role  of  modern  victuals 
have  I  tried, 

Including  roasted,  fricasseed,  broiled,  toasted, 
stewed,  and  fried, 

Your  canvasbacks  and  papa-bottes  and  mut 
ton-chops  subese, 

Your  patties  a  la  Turkey  and  your  doughnuts 
a  la  grease; 

I've  whirled  away  dyspeptic  hours  with  crabs 
in  marble  halls, 


40  "RARE  ROAST  BEEF" 

And  in  the  lowly  cottage    I've    experienced 

codfish  balls; 
But  I've  never  found  a  viand  that  could  so 

allay  all  grief 
And  soothe  the  cockles  of  the  heart  as  rare 

roast  beef. 

I  honor  that  sagacious  king  who,  in  a  grateful 

mood, 
Knighted  the  savory  loin  that  on  the  royal 

table  stood; 
And  as  for  me  I'd  ask  no  better  friend  than 

this  good  roast, 
Which    is    my  squeamish   stomach's  fortress 

(feste  Burg}  and  host; 
For,  with  this  ally  with  me,  I  can  mock  Dys- 

pepsy's  wrath, 
Can  I  pursue  the  joy  of  Wisdom's  pleasant, 

peaceful  path. 
So  I  do  off  my  vest  and  let  my  waistband  out  a 

reef 
When  I  soever  set  me  down  to  rare  roast  beef. 


's  ipeacbes 


Whether  in  Michigan  they  grew, 

Or  by  the  far  Pacific, 
Or  Jerseywards,  I  never  knew 

Or  cared  —  they  were  magnifique  1 
They  set  my  hungry  eyes  aflame, 

My  heart  to  beating  quicker, 
When  trotted  out  by  that  good  dame, 

A-drowned  in  spicy  liquor! 

Of  divers  sweets  in  many  a  land 

I  have  betimes  partaken, 
Yet  now  for  those  old  joys  I  stand, 

My  loyalty  unshaken  ! 
My  palate,  weary  of  the  ways 

Of  modern  times,  beseeches 
The  toothsome  grace  of  halcyon  days 

And  Mrs.  Reilly's  peaches! 

Studded  with  cloves  and  cinnamon, 
And  duly  spiced  and  pickled, 

That  viand  was  as  choice  an  one 
As  ever  palate  tickled  ! 
41 


42  MRS.  REILLY'S  PEACHES 

And  by  those  peaches  on  his  plate 
No  valorous  soul  was  daunted, 

For  oh,  the  more  of  them  you  ate 
The  more  of  them  you  wanted  ! 

The  years  had  dragged  a  weary  pace 

Since  last  those  joys  I  tasted, 
And  I  have  grown  so  wan  of  face 

And  oh,  so  slender-waisted  ! 
Yes,  all  is  sadly  changed,  and  yet 

If  this  eulogium  reaches 
A  certain  lady,  I  shall  get 

A  quick  return  in  peaches. 


TTbe  pneumooastric  1Ren>e 


Upon  an  average,  twice  a  week, 

When  anguish  clouds  my  brow, 
My  good  physician  friend  I  seek 

To  know  "what  ails  me  now." 
He  taps  me  on  the  back  and  chest, 

And  scans  my  tongue  for  bile, 
And  lays  an  ear  against  my  breast 

And  listens  there  awhile; 
Then  is  he  ready  to  admit 

That  all  he  can  observe 
Is  something  wrong  inside,  to  wit: 

My  pneumogastric  nerve  ! 

Now,.  when  these  Latin  names  within 

Dyspeptic  hulks  like  mine 
Go  wrong,  a  fellow  should  begin 

To  draw  what's  called  the  line. 
It  seems,  however,  that  this  same, 

Which  in  my  hulk  abounds, 
Is  not,  despite  its  awful  name, 

So  fatal  as  it  sounds; 
Yet,  of  all  torments  known  to  me, 

I'll  say  without  reserve, 

43 


"     4~* 

44        THE   PNEUMOGASTRIC  NERVE 

There  is  no  torment  like  to  thee, 
Thou  pneumogastric  nerve  I 

This  subtle,  envious  nerve  appears 

To  be  a  patient  foe, — 
It  waited  nearly  forty  years 

Its  chance  to  lay  me  low; 
Then,  like  some  blithering  blast  of  hell, 

It  struck  this  guileless  bard, 
And  in  that  evil  hour  I  fell 

Prodigious  far  and  hard. 
Alas!  what  things  I  dearly  love — 

Pies,  puddings,  and  preserves — 
Are  sure  to  rouse  the  vengeance  of 

All  pneumogastric  nerves ! 

Oh,  that  I  could  remodel  man ! 

I'd  end  these  cruel  pains 
By  hitting  on  a  different  plan 

From  that  which  now  obtains. 
The  stomach,  greatly  amplified, 

Anon  should  occupy 
The  all  of  that  domain  inside 

Where  heart  and  lungs  now  lie. 
But,  first  of  all,  I  should  depose 

That  diabolic  curve, 
The  author  of  my  thousand  woes, 

The  pneumogastric  nerve ! 


TTbe  Cafe  flDoltneau 


The  Cafe  Molineau  is  where 

A  dainty  little  minx 
Serves  God  and  men  as  best  she  can 

By  serving  meats  and  drinks. 
Oh,  such  an  air  the  creature  has, 

And  such  a  pretty  face  ! 
I  took  delight  that  autumn  night 

In  hanging  round  the  place. 

I  know  but  very  little  French 

(I  have  not  long  been  here); 
But  when  she  spoke,  her  meaning  broke 

Full  sweetly  on  my  ear. 
Then,  too,  she  seemed  to  understand 

Whatever  I'd  to  say, 
Though  most  I  knew  was  "oony  poo," 

"Bong  zhoor,"  and  "see  voo  play." 

The  female  wit  is  always  quick, 

And  of  all  womankind 
'Tis  here  in  France  that  you,  perchance, 

The  keenest  wits  shall  find; 

45 


46  THE   CAFE   MOLINEAU 

And  here  you'll  find  that  subtle  gift, 
That  rare,  distinctive  touch, 

Combined  with  grace  of  form  and  face, 
That  glads  men  overmuch. 

"Our  girls  at  home,"  I  mused  aloud, 

"Lack  either  that  or  this; 
They  don't  combine  the  arts  divine 

As  does  the  Gallic  miss. 
Far  be  it  from  me  to  malign 

Our  belles  across  the  sea, 
And  yet  I'll  swear  none  can  compare 

With  this  ideal  She." 

And  then  I  praised  her  dainty  foot 

In  very  awful  French, 
And  parleywood  in  guileful  mood 

Until  the  saucy  wench 
Tossed  back  her  haughty  auburn  head, 

And  froze  me  with  disdain: 
"There  are  on  me  no  flies,"  said  she, 

"For  I  come  from  Bangor,  Maine!" 


"La  Marie  Jansen"  is  a  new  brand  of  cigars  that  has  been 
devised,  manufactured,  and  uttered  by  an  enterprising  Boston 
man  named  Horace  S.  Woodbury.  The  vivacious  lady  who 
gives  her  name  to  these  delectable  weeds  has  honored  us  with 
a  box  of  them,  and  we  desire  to  testify  to  the  superior  quality 
of  the  same  (the  cigars).  The  Jansen  has  no  equal  among 
domestic  goods,  nor  have  we  seen  any  foreign  article  that  we 
prefer  to  it.  It  is  of  medium  size,  of  proper  heft,  is  well  filled, 
and  it  imparts  a  singularly  pleasing  flavor  to  one's  mouth.  We 
know  not  how  better  to  express  our  approval  of  this  paragon  of 
home  industry  than  in  these  eloquent  words  of  the  inspired 
poet: 

"The  weed  that's  imported  is  commonly 
courted, 

But  I  claim  that  the  home-made  will  do,  sir; 
So  I  hullaballoo  fr  th'  indigenous  two-f r, 

And  stand  for  the  red-white-and-blue,  sir. 
The  Jansen's  the  smoker  for  this  jolly  joker — 

It  draws  well,  is  fragrant  and  dapper; 
It  is  so  much  the  best  that  I'd  swap  all  the 
rest 

For  just  one — in  a  cute  little  wrapper." 


47 


ZIbe  ©nion  ZTart 


Of  tarts  there  be  a  thousand  kinds, 

So  versatile  the  art, 
And,  as  we  all  have  different  minds, 

Each  has  his  favorite  tart; 
But  those  which  most  delight  the  rest 

Methinks  should  suit  me  not: 
The  onion  tart  doth  please  me  best — 

Ach,  Gott!  mein  lieber  Gott  1 

Where  but  in  Deutschland  can  be  found 

This  boon  of  which  I  sing? 
Who  but  a  Teuton  could  compound 

This  sui  generis  thing  ? 
None  with  the  German  frau  can  vie 

In  arts  cuisine,  I  wot, 
Whose  summum  bonum  breeds  the  sigh, 

"Ach,  Gott!  mein  lieber  Gott !" 

You  slice  the  fruit  upon  the  dough, 

And  season  to  the  taste, 
Then  in  an  oven  (not  too  slow) 

The  viand  should  be  placed; 


49 


And,  when  'tis  done,  upon  a  plate 

You  serve  it  piping  hot, 
Your  nostrils  and  your  eyes  dilate, — 

Ach,  Gott!  mein  lieber  Gott ! 

It  sweeps  upon  the  sight  and  smell 

In  overwhelming  tide, 
And  then  the  sense  of  taste  as  well 

Betimes  is  gratified: 
Three  noble  senses  drowned  in  bliss ! 

I  prithee  tell  me,  what 
Is  there  beside  compares  with  this? 

Ach,  Gott!  mein  lieber  Gott ! 

For  if  the  fruit  be  proper  young, 

And  if  the  crust  be  good, 
How  shall  they  melt  upon  the  tongue 

Into  a  savory  flood ! 
How  seek  the  Mecca  down  below, 

And  linger  round  that  spot, 
Entailing  weeks  and  months  of  woe— 

Ach,  Gott!  mein  lieber  Gott! 

If  Nature  gives  men  appetites 
For  things  that  won't  digest, 

Why,  let  them  eat  whatso  delights, 
And  let  her  stand  the  rest; 

And  though  the  sin  involve  the  cost 


THE  ONION  TART 

Of  Carlsbad,  like  as  not, 
'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost — 
Ach,  Gott!  mein  lieber  Gott  1 

Beyond  the  vast,  the  billowy  tide, 

Where  my  compatriots  dwell, 
All  kinds  of  victuals  have  I  tried, 

All  kinds  of  drinks,  as  well; 
But  nothing  known  to  Yankee  art 

Appears  to  reach  the  spot 
Like  this  Teutonic  onion  tart — • 

Ach,  Gott !  mein  lieber  Gott ! 

So,  though  I  quaff  of  Carlsbad's  tide 

As  full  as  I  can  hold, 
And  for  complete  reform  inside 

Plank  down  my  hoard  of  gold, 
Remorse  shall  not  consume  my  heart, 

Nor  sorrow  vex  my  lot, 
For  I  have  eaten  onion  tart, 

Ach,  Gott!  mein  lieber  Gott ! 


H  "CClestern  BOE'S  Xament 


I  wished  I  lived  away  down  east  where  cod 

fish  salt  the  sea, 
And  where  the  folks  have  pumpkin  pie  and 

apple  sass  for  tea. 
Us  boys  who's  livin'  here  out  west  don't  get 

more'n  half  a  show  — 
We  don't  have  nothin'  else  to  do  but  jest  to 

sort  o'  grow. 

Oh,  if  I  was  a  bird  I'd  fly  a  million  miles  away 
To  where  they  feed  their  boys  on  pork  and 

beans  three  times  a  day; 
To  where  the  place  they  call  the  Hub  gives 

out  its  shiny  spokes, 
And    where     the    folks  —  so    father    says  —  is 

mostly  women  folks. 


Seefn' 


I  ain't  afeard  uv  snakes,  or  toads,  or  bugs,  or 

worms,  or  mice, 
An*  things  'at  girls  are  skeered  uv  I  think  are 

awful  nice  ! 
I'm  pretty  brave,  I  guess;  an'  yet  I  hate  to  go 

to  bed, 
For,  when  I'm  tucked  up  warm  an*  snug  an' 

when  my  prayers  are  said, 
Mother  tells  rne  "  Happy  dreams!"  and  takes 

away  the  light, 
An*  leaves  me  lyin*  all  alone  an*  seem'  things 

at  night  I 

Sometimes  they're  in  the  corner,  sometimes 

they're  by  the  door, 
Sometimes  they're  all  a-standin*  in  the  middle 

uv  the  floor; 
Sometimes  they  are  a-sittin'  down,  sometimes 

they're  walkin'  round 
So  softly  an*  so  creepylike  they  never  make  a 

soundl 


SEEIN'  THINGS  53 

Sometimes  they  are  as  black  as  ink,  an*  other 

times  they're  white — 
But  the  color  ain't  no  difference  when  you  see 

things  at  night! 


Once,  when  I  licked  a  feller  'at  had  just  moved 

on  our  street, 
An*  father  sent  me  up  to  bed  without  a  bit  to 

eat, 
I  woke  up  in  the  dark  an'  saw  things  standin' 

in  a  row, 
A-lookin'    at   me    cross-eyed    an'    p'intin*    at 

me — so ! 
Oh,  my!    I  wuz  so  skeered  that  time  I  never 

slep'  a  mite — 
It's  almost  alluz  when  I'm  bad  I  see  things 

at  night ! 


Lucky  thing  I  ain't  a  girl,  or  I'd  be  skeered  to 

death ! 
Bein'  I'm  a  boy,  I  duck  my  head  an'  hold  my 

breath; 
An*  I  am,  oh!  so  sorry  I'm  a  naughty  boy,  an' 

then 
I  promise  to  be  better  an'  I  say  my  prayers 

again ! 


54  SEEIN'  THINGS 

Gran'ma  tells  me  that's  the  only  way  to  make 

it  right 
When  a  feller  has  been  wicked  an*  sees  things 

at  night ! 

An'  so,  when  other  naughty  boys  would  coax 

me  into  sin, 
I  try  to  skwush  the  Tempter's  voice  'at  urges 

me  within; 
An'  when  they's  pie  for  supper,  or  cakes  'at's 

big  an'  nice, 
I  want  to — but  I  do  not  pass  my  plate  f'r  them 

things  twice ! 
No,  ruther  let  Starvation  wipe  me  slowly  out 

o'  sight 
Than  I  should  keep  a-livin*  on  an'  seein*  things 

at  night ! 


©ur 


Come,   Harvey,  let    us    sit    awhile    and    talk 

about  the  times 
Before  you  went  to  selling  clothes  and  I  to 

peddling  rhymes  —  • 
The  days  when  we  were  little  boys,  as  naughty 

little  boys 
As  ever  worried  home-folks  with  their  ever 

lasting  noise  ! 
Egad  !  and,  were  we  so  disposed,  I'll  venture 

we  could  show 
The  scars  of   wallopings  we  got  some  forty 

years  ago; 
What  wallopings  I  mean,  I  think  I  need  not 

specify  —  • 
Mother's  whippings  didn't  hurt;  but  father's  ! 

oh,  my  ! 

The  way  that  we  played  hookey  those  many 

years  ago  — 
We'd  rather  give  'most  anything  than  have  our 

children  know  ! 
The  thousand  naughty  things  we  did,  the  thou 

sand  fibs  we  told  — 

55 


56  OUR  WHIPPINGS 

Why,  thinking  of  them  makes  my  Presbyterian 
blood  run  cold ! 

How  often  Deacon  Sabine  Morse  remarked,  if 
we  were  his 

He'd  tan  our  "pesky  little  hides  until  the  blis 
ters  riz!" 

It's  many  a  hearty  thrashing  to  that  Deacon 
Morse  we  owe — 

Mother's  whippings  didn't  count — father's  did, 
though ! 


We  used  to  sneak  off  swimmin'  in  those  care 
less,  boyish  days, 
And  come  back  home  of  evenings  with  our 

necks  and  backs  ablaze; 
How  mother  used  to  wonder  why  our  clothes 

were  full  of  sand, 
But  father,  having  been  a  boy,  appeared  to 

understand. 
And,  after  tea,  he'd  beckon  us  to  join  him  in 

the  shed, 
Where   he'd   proceed   to   tinge   our  backs    a 

deeper,  darker  red; 
Say  what  we  will  of  mother's,  there  is  none 

will  controvert 
The    proposition   that    our    father's    lickings 

always  hurt ! 


OUR  WHIPPINGS  57 

For  mother  was  by  nature  so  forgiving  and  so 

mild 
That  she  inclined  to  spare  the  rod  although 

she  spoiled  the  child; 
And  when  at  last  in  self-defence  she  had  to 

whip  us,  she 
Appeared  to  feel  those  whippings  a  great  deal 

more  than  we ! 
But  how  we  bellowed  and  took  on,  as  if  we'd 

like  to  die — 
Poor    mother    really    thought   she   hurt,  and 

that's  what  made  her  cry  ! 
Then  how  we  youngsters  snickered  as  out  the 

door  we  slid, 
For    mother's  whippings  never  hurt,  though 

father's  always  did. 


In  after  years  poor  father  simmered  down  to 

five  feet  four, 
But  in  our  youth  he  seemed  to  us  in  height 

eight  feet  or  more ! 
Oh,  how  we  shivered  when  he  quoth  in  cold, 

suggestive  tone: 
"I'll  see  you  in  the  woodshed  after  supper  all 

alone!" 
Oh,  how   the   legs   and   arms   and    dust   and 

trouser  buttons  flew — 


58  OUR  WHIPPINGS 

What    florid    vocalisms   marked   that   vesper 

interview ! 
Yet,  after  all  this  lapse  of  years,  I  feelingly 

assert, 
With   all  respect    to  mother,  it  was  father's 

whippings  hurt ! 

The  little  boy  experiencing  that  tinglin'  'neath 

his  vest 

Is  often  loath  to  realize  that  all  is  for  the  best; 
Yet,  when  the  boy  gets  older,  he  pictures  with 

delight 
The  buffetings  of  childhood — as  we  do  here 

to-night. 
The  years,  the  gracious  years,  have  smoothed 

and  beautified  the  ways 
That  to  our  little  feet  seemed  all  too  rugged 

in  the  days 
Before  you  went  to  selling  clothes  and  I  to 

peddling  rhymes — 
So,  Harvey,  let  us  sit  awhile  and  think  upon 

those  times. 


Ube  Snafees  Ubat  IRow&s  Saw 


These  are  the  snakes  that  Rowdy  saw: 
Some  were  green  and  some  were  white, 
Some  were  black  as  the  spawn  of  night; 
Some  were  yellow, 
And  one  big  fellow 
Had  monstrous  blotches  of  angry  red 
And  a  scarlet  welt  on  his  slimy  head; 
And  other  snakes  that  Rowdy  saw 
Were  of  every  hue 
From  pink  to  blue, 

And  the  longer  he  looked,  the  bigger  they 
grew! 

An  old  he-snake  with  a  frowzy  head 
Was  one  of  the  snakes  that  Rowdy  saw. 
This  old  he-snake  he  grinned  and  leered 
When  he  saw  that  Rowdy  was  afeard; 
And  he  ran  out  his  tongue  in  frightful  wise 
As  he  batted  his  fireless  dead-fish  eyes; 
And  he  lashed  his  tail 
In  the  moonlight  pale, 

59 


60     THE  SNAKES  THAT  ROWDY  SAW 

And   he    tickled    his  jaw  with   his  left   hind 

paw — 
Did  this  old  he-snake  that  Rowdy  saw ! 

These  hideous  snakes  that  Rowdy  saw 
Wiggled  and  twisted 
Wherever  they  listed, 
Straightway  glided 
Or  ambled  one-sided. 
There  were  some  of  those  things 
That  had  fiery  wings — 
Yes,  some  of  the  snakes  that  Rowdy  saw 
Hummed  round  in  the  air 
With  their  eyeballs  aglare 
And  their  whiskers  aflare, 
And  they  hissed  their  approval  of   Rowdy's 
despair ! 

And  some  of  the  snakes  that  Rowdy  saw 

Had  talons  like  bats, 
And  looked  like  a  cross  between  buzzards 

and  rats! 
They  crawled  from  his  boots>  and  they  sprawled 

on  the  floor, 
They  sat  on  the  mantel,  and  perched  on  the 

door, 
And  grinned   all   the   fiercer  the   louder    he 

swore  1 


THE  SNAKES  THAT  ROWDY  SAW      61 

Out,  out  of  his  boots 
Came  the  damnable  brutes — 
These  murdersome  snakes  that  Rowdy  saw! 
Strange  cries  they  uttered, 
And  poison  they  sputtered 
As  they  crawled  or  they  fluttered ! 
This  way  and  that 
Their  venom  they  spat, 
Till  Rowdy  had  doubts  as  to  where  he  was  at ! 

They  twined  round  his  legs,  and  encircled  his 

waist; 
His  arms  and  his  neck  and  his  breast  they 

embraced; 

They  hissed  in  his  ears,  and  they  spat  in  his  eyes, 
And  with  their   foul  breaths   interrupted  his 

cries. 

Blue  serpents,  and  green, 
Red,  yellow  and  black — 
Of  as  hideous  mien 
As  ever  was  seen 
Girt  him  round,  fore  and  back, 
And  higgling 
And  wriggling, 
With    their  slimy  and  grimy  preponderance 

they  bore 

Rowdy  down  to  the  floor.     He  remembers  no 
more. 


62     THE  SNAKES  THAT  ROWDY  SAW 

The  sequel  is  this:  The  snakes  that  he  saw 
Were  such  hideous  snakes,  were  such  tor- 

turesome  things, 
With   their   poison-tipped   fangs   and  their 

devil-claw  wings, 
That  he  speaks  of  them  now  with  a  meaningful 

awe; 
And  when  m  the  bar-room  the  bottle  goes 

round, 

And  wassail  and  laughter  and  "boodle"  abound, 
Poor  Rowdy  he  turns  down  his  glass  with  a 

sigh. 
"Come,  Rowdy,  drink  hearty!"  the  aldermen 

cry. 

His  palate  is  yearning,  his  fauces  are  dry, 
The  bottle  appeals  to  his  gullet  and  eye; 
But  he  thinks  of  the  snakes,  and  he — lets  it 

go  by. 


professor  IDere  oe  Blaw 


Achievin'    sech    distinction    with    his    model 

tabble  dote 
Ez  to  make  his  Red  Hoss  Mountain  restauraw 

a  place  uv  note, 
Our    old    friend   Casey  innovated   somewhat 

round  the  place, 
In  hopes  he  would  ameliorate  the  sufferin's  uv 

* 

the  race; 
'Nd  uv  the  many  features  Casey  managed  to 

import 
The  most   important  wuz   a  Steenway  gran' 

pianny-fort, 
An',  bein'  there  wuz  nobody  could  play  upon 

the  same, 
He  telegraffed  to  Denver,  'nd  a  real  perfesser 

came,  — 
The    last   an'   crownin*   glory   uv   the   Casey 

restauraw 
Wuz    that    tenderfoot   musicianer,   Perfesser 

Vere  de  Blaw  ! 

His  hair  wuz  long  an'  dishybill,  an'  he  had  a 

yaller  skin, 
An'  the  absence  uv  a  collar  made   his   neck 

look  powerful  thin; 
63 


64  PROFESSOR  VERE  DE  BLAW 

A  sorry  man  he  wuz  to  see,  az  mebby  you'd 

surmise, 
But  the  fire  uv  ^inspiration  wuz  a-blazin'  in  his 

eyes! 
His  name  wuz  Blanc,  wich  same  is  Blaw  (for 

that's  what  Casey  said, 
An'  Casey  passed  the  French  ez  well  ez  any 

Frenchie  bred); 
But  no  one  ever  reckoned  that  it  really  wuz 

his  name, 
An'  no  one  ever  asked  him  how  or  why  or 

whence  he  came, — • 
Your  ancient  history  is  a  thing  the  Coloradan 

hates, 
An*  no  one  asks  another  what  his  name  wuz 

in  the  States  1 


At  evenin',  when  the  work  wuz  done,  'nd  the 

miners  rounded  up 
At  Casey's,  to  indulge  in  keerds  or  linger  with 

the  cup, 
Or  dally  with  the  tabble  dote  in  all  its  native 

glory, ' 
Perfesser  Vere  de  Blaw  discoursed  his  music 

repertory 
Upon  the  Steenway  gran*  pianny-fort,  the  wich 

wuz  sot 


PROFESSOR  VERE  DE  BLAW  65 

In  the  hallway  near  the  kitchen  (a  warm  but 
quiet  spot), 

An'  when  De  Blaw's  environments  induced 
the  proper  pride, — 

Wich  gen'rally  wuz  whiskey  straight,  with 
seltzer  on  the  side, — 

He  throwed  his  soulful  bein'  into  opry  airs  'nd 
things 

Wich  bounded  to  the  ceilin*  like  he'd  mesmer 
ized  the  strings. 


Oh,  you  that  live  in   cities  where  the  gran* 

piannies  grow, 
An'  primy  donnies   round  up,  it's  little  that 

you  know 
Uv  the  hungerin'   an*  the  yearnin'  wich    us 

miners  an'  the  rest 
Feel  for  the  songs  we  used  to  hear  before  we 

moved  out  West. 

Yes,  memory  is  a  pleasant  thing,  but  it  weak 
ens  mighty  quick; 
It  kind  uv  dries  an'  withers,  like  the  windin' 

mountain  crick, 
That,  beautiful,  an'  singin1  songs,  goes  dancin' 

to  the  plains, 
So  long  ez  it  is  fed  by  snows  an*  watered  by 

the  rains; 


66  PROFESSOR  VERE  DE  BLAW 

But,  uv  that  grace  uv  lovin'  rains  'nd  mountain 

snows  bereft, 
Its  bleachin'  rocks,  like  dummy  ghosts,  is  all 

its  memory  left. 

The  toons  wich  the  perfesser  would  perform 

with  sech  eclaw 
Would  melt  the  toughest  mountain  gentleman 

I  ever  saw, — 
Sech   touchin'  opry  music   ez  the  Trovytory 

sort, 
The   sollum   "Mizer   Reery,"  an'  the  thrillin' 

"Keely  Mort"; 
Or,  sometimes,  from  "Lee  Grond  Dooshess"  a 

trifle  he  would  play, 
Or  morsoze  from  a*  opry  boof,  to  drive  dull 

care  away; 
Or,   feelin'    kind    uv  serious,   he'd    discourse 

somewhat  in  C, — 
The  wich    he  called  a'  opus — whatever  that 

may  be; 
But  the  toons  that  fetched  the  likker  from  the 

critics  in  the  crowd 
Wuz  not  the  high-toned  ones,  Perfesser  Vere 

de  Blaw  allowed. 

Twuz  ''Dearest  May,"  an'  "Bonnie  Boon,"  an' 
$he  ballard  uv  "Ben  Bolt," 


PROFESSOR  VERE  DE  BLAW  67 

Ez  wuz  regarded  by  all  odds  ez  Vere  de  Blaw's 

best  holt; 
Then   there  wuz  "Darlin'    Nellie   Gray,*'  an' 

"Settin'  on  the  Stile," 
An'"Seein'  Nellie  Home,"  an'  "Nancy  Lee," 

fnd  "Annie  Lisle," 
And  "Silver  Threads  among  the  Gold,"  'nd 

"The  Gal  That  Winked  at  Me," 
An'  "Gentle  Annie,"  "Nancy  Till,"  an'  "The 

Cot  beside  the  Sea." 
Your  opry  airs  is  good  enough  for  them  ez 

likes  to  pay 
Their  money  for  the  truck  ez  can't  be  got  no 

other  way; 

But  opry  to  a  miner  is  a  thin  an*  holler  thing — 
The  music  that  he  pines  for  is  the  songs  he 

used  to  sing. 

One  evenin',  down  at  Casey's,  De  Blaw  wuz  at 

his  best, 
With  four-fingers  uv  old  Wilier-run  concealed 

beneath  his  vest; 
The  boys  wuz  settin'  all  around,  discussin*  folks 

an'  things, 
'Nd  I  had  drawed  the  necessary  keerds  to  fill 

on  kings; 
Three-fingered  Hoover  kind  uv  leaned  acrosst 

the  bar  to  say 


68  PROFESSOR  VERE  DE  BLAW 

If  Casey' d  liquidate  right  off,  he'd  liquidate 
next  day; 

A  sperrit  uv  contentment  wuz  a-broodin'  all 
around 

(Onlike  the  other  sperrits  wich  in  restauraws 
abound), 

When,  suddenly,  we  heerd  from  yonder 
kitchen-entry  rise 

A  toon  each  ornery  galoot  appeared  to  recog 
nize. 

Perfesser  Vere  de  Blaw  for  once  eschewed  his 

opry  ways, 
An'  the  remnants  uv   his  mind  went  back  to 

earlier,  happier  days 
An*  grappled   like   an'   wrassled  with   a'   old 

familiar  air 
The   wich   we  all   uv  us   had  heern,  ez  you 

have,  everywhere ! 
Stock  still  we  stopped, — some  in  their  talk  uv 

politics  an'  things, 

I  in  my  unobtrusive  attempt  to  fill  on  kings, 
An'  Hoover  leanin'  on  the  bar,  and  Casey  at 

the  till, — 
We  all  stopped  short  an'  held  our  breaths  (ez  a 

feller  sometimes  will), 
An'  sot  there  more  like  bumps  on  logs  than 

healthy,  husky  men, 


PROFESSOR  VERE  DE  BLAW  69 

Ez  the  memories  uv  that  old,  old  toon  come 

sneakin'  back  again. 

. 

You've  guessed  it?    No,  you  haven't;   for  it 

wuzn't  that  there  song 
Uv  the  home  we'd  been  away  from  an'  had 

hankered  for  so  long, — 
No,   sir;    it    wuzn't   "Home,    Sweet    Home/' 

though  it's  always  heerd  around 
Sech  neighborhoods  in  wich  the  home  that  is 

"sweet  home"  is  found. 
And,  ez  for  me,  I  seemed  to  see  the  past  come 

back  again, 
And  hear  the  deep-drawed  sigh  my  sister  Lucy 

uttered  when 
Her  mother  asked  her  if  she'd  practised  her 

two  hours  that  day, 
Wich,  if  she  hadn't,  she  must  go  an'  do   it 

right  away! 

The  homestead  in  the  States  an'  all  its  memo 
ries  seemed  to  come 
A-floatin'  round  about   me  with   that   magic 

lumty-tum. 

And  then  uprose  a  stranger  wich  had  struck 

the  camp  that  night; 
His  eyes  wuz  sot  an'  fireless,  'nd  his  face  wuz 

spookish  white, 


70  PROFESSOR  VERE  DE  BLAW 

'Nd  he  sez:  "Oh,  how  I  "suffer  there  is  nobody 
kin  say, 

Onless,  like  me,  he's  wrenched  himself  from 
home  an'  friends  away 

To  seek  surcease  from  sorrer  in  a  fur,  secloo- 
ded  spot, 

Only  to  find — alars,  too  late ! — the  wich  sur 
cease  is  not ! 

Only  to  find  that  there  air  things  that,  some 
how,  seem  to  live 

For  nothin'  in  the  world  but  jest  the  misery 
they  give ! 

I've  travelled  eighteen  hundred  miles,  but  that 
toon  has  got  here  first; 

I'm  done, — I'm  blowed, — I  welcome  death,  an' 
bid  it  do  its  worst  I" 


Then,  like   a   man  whose   mind  wuz  sot  on 

yieldin*  to  his  fate, 
He  waltzed  up  to  the  counter  an'  demanded 

whiskey  straight, 
Wich  havin'  got  outside  uv, — both  the  likker 

and  the  door, — 
We  never  seen  that  stranger  in  the  bloom  uv 

health  no  more ! 
But,  some  months  later,  what  the  birds  had 

left  uv  him  wuz  found 


PROFESSOR  VERB  DE  BLAW  71 

Associated  with  a  tree,  some  distance  from  the 

ground; 
And  Husky  Sam,  the  coroner,  that  set  upon 

him,  said 
That  two  things  wuz  apparent,  namely:  first, 

deceast  wuz  dead; 
And,   second,    previously    had    got    involved 

beyond  all  hope 
In  a  knotty  complication  with  a  yard  or  two 

uv  rope  1 


'Cbe  IRime  ot  tbc  Crow  Eater 

r 

Into  the  market  place  there  came 
(One  autumn  morning  murky) 

An  old  and  battered  veteran 
To  choose  a  proper  turkey. 

His  coat  tails  and  his  shrunken  shanks 
Had  cockle  burrs  stuck  to  'em, 

And  his  whiskers  looked  as  if  the  wind 
Of  winter  had  blown  through  'em. 

And  still  as  through  those  whiskers  white 

The  breezes  rudely  fluttered, 
The  old  man  from  a  cracker-box 

This  strange  recital  uttered: 

'Twice  two  long  years,"  says  he,  "I've  sot 

Around  the  Grand  Pacific, 
And  all  that  twice  two  years  the  feed 

Has  simply  been  terrific." 

THE   GRAND    PACIFIC 

"For  twice  two  years  I've  eaten  crow 

In  widely  various  weathers; 
Not  only  meat  and  skin  and  bones, 

But  also  claws  and  feathers  1" 
72 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  CROW  EATER     73 

A  CROW 

"The  crow  it  is  a  dismal  bird, 

And  deeply  I  abhor  it; 
For  twice  two  years  I've  lived  on  crow, 
Though  never  clamoring  for  it. 

1  'What  have  we  on  the  bill  to-day?' 

I'd  question  of  the  waiter; 
'Turk  fer  the  rest/  sez  he,  *but  you 

Gets  crow  an'  cold  pertater  1' 

"They  gave  me  crow  in  every  style 

And  every  foreign  name,  sir — 
Alas !  no  matter  how  disguised, 
Crow  always  is  the  same,  sir! 

"Though  it  be  christened  a  la  mode, 

Still  is  its  flavor  queer,  sir; 
No  rhetoric  can  mitigate 
Its  consequences  here,  sir ! 

"In  vain  I  fled  from  John  B.  Drake 

To  other  restauraters; 
In  vain  I  sought  for  victuals  else 
Than  crow  and  cold  pertaters !" 

A   RESTAURANT 

"They  fed  me  crow  and  only  crow 
Until  I  thought  I'd  die,  sir; 


74     THE  RIME  OF  THE  CROW  EATER 

I  got  so  full  of  crow  at  last 
I  half  opined  I'd  fly,  sir ! 

"For,  as  I  said  a  spell  ago, 

In  fair  and  stormy  weathers, 
I  ate  not  only  the  skin  and  bones — 
I  ate  also  the  feathers ! 


"The  crow  it  is  a  noxious  bird 

To  stomachs  such  as  mine  is; 
But,  heaven  be  praised!  there  is  no  ill 
But  some  time  has  \\sfinis! 

"Once,  as  I  chewed  the  bitter  cud 

Of  gloomy  introspections, 
A  cheery  voice  broke  in  upon 
The  thread  of  my  reflections. 

"I  looked  up  and  saw  the  face 

Of  Captain  John  R.  Tanner! 
I  heard  salvation  in  his  voice — 
I  saw  it  in  his  manner  1 

"At  once  dispelled  were  gnawing  griefs 

And  apprehensions  gloomy; 
Of  all  the  spectacles  on  earth, 

This  was  the  most  precious  to  me !" 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  CROW  EATER     75 

SPECTACLES 

1  'John !  John !'  I  wailed,  'give  piteous  ear 

Unto  my  tale  of  woe,  sir; 
For  twice  two  years  I've  eaten  crow, 

And  eaten  only  crow,  sir ! 

1  'What  wonder  is  it  that  I  cry, 

"O  temp  or  a!  O  mores!" 
Since  gnawing  crow  has  worn  away 

My  denies  incisores? ': 

DENTES    INCISORES 

'The  bird  of  which  you  speak,'  says  John, 

'It,  too,  has  been  my  living; 
But,  Bailey,  you  and  I  shall  gorge 

On  turkey,  come  Thanksgiving  1 

'  'See  here;  I  have  a  subtle  soup 

Corked  up  in  this  decanter, 
With  which  I'll  prove  "similia 

Similibus  curanturT 

*  'I  shall  inject  this  subtle  soup 

Into  our  common  foe,  sir; 
Then  shall  we  get  the  turkey-bird, 

And  they  shall  get  the  crow,  sir ! 


76     THE  RIME  OF  THE  CROW  EATER 

*  'But  never  mind  particulars — 
Just  wait  and  watch  the  sequel ! 

Oh,  we  shall  lead  them  such  a  dance 
As  never  had  an  equal  1'  " 


A  DANCE 

'Twas  even  as  John  Tanner  said, 

And  you  will  not  deny  it 
If  you  observe,  Thanksgiving  Day, 

My  changed  and  sumptuous  diet ! 

"Times  are  more  prosperous  than  they  were- 

Once  more  we've  peace  and  plenty; 
Turkey  shall  be  my  dainty  feast 
Next  week,  Deo  volente! 

"For  twice  two  years  I've  lived  on  crow 
Through  ever  changeful  weathers — 
Those  twice  two  cycles  fed  on  skins, 
Bones,  inwards,  claws  and  feathers." 

TWICE   TWO   CYCLES 

"But  fickle  fate  has  brought  me  joy, 

And,  feeling  blithe  and  perky, 
I've  come  into  the  market  place 
To  fetch  a  bouncing  turkey. 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  CROW  EATER     77 

"No  senile,  starveling  bird  will  do — 
But  one  that's  young  and  tender; 
One  that  is  whiskerless  and  plump, 
And  of  the  female  gender  1" 

A  TURKEY 

"I'll  carve  it  next  Thanksgiving  Day, 

And  pour  the  oyster  sauce  on — 
'Twill  be  a  goodly  change  from  crow  1" 
Quoth  grand  old  Bailey  Dawson- 


Ube  Hgefc  housewife's 


I  pray  that,  risen  from  the  dead, 

I  may  in  glory  stand, 
A  crown,  perhaps,  upon  my  head  — 

But  a  needle  in.  my  hand. 

I've  had  no  time  to  learn  to  play  — 

So  let  no  harp  be  mine; 
Through  all  my  life,  by  night  and  day, 

Plain  sewing's  been  my  line. 

Therefore,  accustomed,  to  the  end, 

To  plying  useful  stitches, 
I'll  be  content  if  asked  to  mend 

The  little  angels'  breeches. 

Live  long,  dear,  kindly  woman  —  live  long  to 
bless  us  with  your  gentle  works  and  Christian 
example;  live  long  to  gather  from  our  hands 
and  lips  and  hearts  the  debt  of  gratitude  and 
love  we  owe  I 


2Dntcb  Xullabg 


Wynken,  BIynken,  and  Nod  one  night 

Sailed  off  in  a  wooden  shoe  — 
Sailed  on  a  river  of  misty  light, 

Into  a  sea  of  dew. 
"Where  are  you  going,  and  what  do  you  wish  ?" 

The  old  moon  asked  the  three. 
"We  have  come  to  fish  for  the  herring  fish. 
That  live  in  this  beautiful  sea; 
Nets  of  silver  and  gold  have  wel" 
Said  Wynken, 
BIynken, 
And  Nod. 

The  old  moon  laughed  and  sang  a  song, 

As  they  rocked  in  the  wooden  shoe, 
And  the  wind  that  sped  them  all  night  long 

Ruffled  the  waves  of  dew. 
The  little  stars  were  the  herring  fish 
That  lived  in  that  beautiful  sea  — 
"Now  cast  your  nets  wherever  you  wish  — 
Never  afeard  are  we"; 
So  cried  the  stars  to  the  fishermen  three: 
Wynken, 
BIynken, 
And  Nod. 

79 


So  DUTCH   LULLABY 

All  night  long  their  nets  they  threw 

To  the  stars  in  the  twinkling  foam — 
Then  down  from  the  skies  came  the  wooden 

shoe, 

Bringing  the  fishermen  home; 
'Twas  all  so  pretty  a  sail  it  seemed 

As  if  it  could  not  be, 
And  some  folks  thought  'twas  a  dream  they'd 

dreamed 

Of  sailing  that  beautiful  sea — 
But  I  shall  name  you  the  fishermen  three: 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

Wynken  and  Blynken  are  two  little  eyes, 

And  Nod  is  a  little  head, 
And  the  wooden  shoe  that  sailed  the  skies 

Is  a  wee  one's  trundle-bed. 
So  shut  your  eyes  while  mother  sings 

Of  wonderful  sights  that  be, 
And  you  shall  see  the  beautiful  things 
As  you  rock  in  the  misty  sea 
Where  the  old  shoe  rocked  the  fishermen 
three: 

Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 


Japanese  Xullabg 


Sleep,  little  pigeon,  and  fold  your  wings,  — 
Little  blue  pigeon  with  velvet  eyes; 

Sleep  to  the  singing  of  mother-bird  swinging  — 
Swinging  the  nest  where  her  little  one  lies. 

Away  out  yonder  I  see  a  star,  — 
Silvery  star  with  a  tinkling  song; 

To  the  soft  dew  falling  I  hear  it  calling  — 
Calling  and  tinkling  the  night  along. 

In  through  the  window  a  moonbeam  conies,  — 
Little  gold  moonbeam  with  misty  wings; 

All  silently  creeping,  it  asks:  "Is  he  sleeping  — 
Sleeping  and  dreaming  while  mother  sings  ?" 

Up  from  the  sea  there  floats  a  sob 
Of  the  waves  that  are  breaking  upon  the 

shore, 
As  though  they  were  groaning  in  anguish,  and 

moaning  — 

Bemoaning   the  ship  that    shall  come   no 
more. 

8l 


82  JAPANESE  LULLABY 

But  sleep,  little  pigeon,  and  fold  your 
Little  blue  pigeon  with  mournful  eyes; 

Am  I  not  singing  ? — see,  I  am  swinging — 
Swinging  the  nest  where  my  darling  lies. 


Horse 


The  sky  is  dark  and  the  hills  are  white 

As   the  storm  -king  speeds   from    the    north 

to-night; 

And  this  is  the  song  the  storm-king  sings, 
As  over  the  world  his  cloak  he  flings: 

"Sleep,  sleep,  little  one,  sleep;" 
He  rustles  his  wings  and  gruffly  sings: 

"Sleep,  little  one,  sleep." 

On  yonder  mountain-side  a  vine 
Clings  at  the  foot  of  a  mother  pine; 
The  tree  bends  over  the  trembling  thing, 
And  only  the  vine  can  hear  her  sing: 

"Sleep,  sleep,  little  one,  sleep; 
What  shall  you  fear  when  I  am  here  ? 

Sleep,  little  one,  sleep." 

The  king  may  sing  in  his  bitter  flight, 
The  king  may  croon  to  the  vine  to-night, 
But  the  little  snowflake  at  my  breast 
Liketh  the  song  /  sing  the  best,  — 

Sleep,  sleep,  little  one,  sleep; 
Weary  thou  art,  anext  my  heart 

Sleep,  little  one,  sleep. 
83 


Corsican  Xullabg 

r 

Bambino  in  his  cradle  slept; 

And  by  his  side  his  grandam  grim 
Bent  down  and  smiled  upon  the  child, 

And  sung  this  lullaby  to  him, — 
This  "ninna  and  anninia": 

"When  thou  art  older,  thou  shalt  mind 
To  traverse  countries  far  and  wide, 
And  thou  shalt  go  where  roses  blow 
And  balmy  waters  singing  glide — 
So  ninna  and  anninia! 

"And  thou  shalt  wear,  trimmed  up  in  points 

A  famous  jacket  edged  in  red, 
And,  more  than  that,  a  peaked  hat, 
All  decked  in  gold,  upon  thy  head — 
Ah  !  ninna  and  anninia! 

"Then  shalt  thou  carry  gun  and  knife, 

Nor  shall  the  soldiers  bully  thee; 
Perchance,  beset  by  wrong  or  debt, 
A  mighty  bandit  thou  shalt  be — 
So  ninna  and  anninia! 
84 


CORSICAN  LULLABY  85 

"No  woman  yet  of  our  proud  race 

Lived  to  her  fourteenth  year  unwed; 
The  brazen  churl  that  eyed  a  girl 

Brought  her  the  ring  or  paid  his  head — 
So  ninna  and  anninia! 

"But  once  came  spies  (I  know  the  thieves !) 

And  brought  disaster  to  our  race; 
God  heard  us  when  our  fifteen  men 
Were  hanged  within  the  market-place — 
But  ninna  and  anninia! 

"Good  men  they  were,  my  babe,  and  true, — 

Right  worthy  fellows  all,  and  strong; 
Live  thou  and  be  for  them  and  me 
Avenger  of  that  deadly  wrong — 
So  ninna  and  anninia  I" 


©rfcneg  Zullabg 


A  moonbeam  floateth  from  the  skies, 
Whispering,  "Heigho,  my  dearie! 
I  would  spin  a  web  before  your  eyes  — 
A  beautiful  web  of  silver  light, 
Wherein  is  many  a  wondrous  sight 
Of  a  radiant  garden  leagues  away, 
Where  the  softly  tinkling  lilies  sway, 
And  the  snow-white  lambkins  are  at  play,- 
Heigho,  my  dearie  1" 

A  brownie  stealeth  from  the  vine, 
Singing,  "Heigho,  my  dearie! 
And  will  you  hear  the  song  of  mine,  — 
A  song  of  the  land  of  murk  and  mist 
Where  bideth  the  bud  the  dew  hath  kist  ? 
Then  let  the  moonbeam's  web  of  light 
Be  spun  before  thee  silvery  white, 
And  I  shall  sing  the  livelong  night,  — 
Heigho,  my  dearie  I" 

The  night  wind  speedeth  from  the  sea, 

Murmuring,  "Heigho,  my  dearie! 
I  bring  a  mariner's  prayer  for  thee; 


ORKNEY   LULLABY  87 

So  let  the  moonbeam  veil  thine  eyes, 
And  the  brownie  sing  thee  lullabies; 
But  I  shall  rock  thee  to  and  fro, 
Kissing  the  brow  he  loveth  so, 
And  the  prayer  shall  guard  thy  bed,  I  trow, — 
Heigho,  my  dearie  I" 


Xullabg 


My  harp  is  on  the  willow-tree, 
Else  would  I  sing,  O  love,  to  thee 

A  song  of  long-ago  — 
Perchance  the  song  that  Miriam  sung 
Ere  yet  Judea's  heart  was  wrung 

By  centuries  of  woe. 

I  ate  my  crust  in  tears  to-day, 

As  scourged  I  went  upon  my  way  — 

And  yet  my  darling  smiled; 
Ay,  beating  at  my  breast,  he  laughed  — 
My  anguish  curdled  not  the  draught  — 

'Twas  sweet  with  love,  my  child  ! 

The  shadow  of  those  centuries  lies 
Deep  in  thy  dark  and  mournful  eyes  — 

But,  hush  !  and  close  them  now; 
And  in  the  dreams  that  thou  shalt  dream 
The  light  of  other  days  shall  seem 

To  glorify  thy  brow  ! 

88 


JEWISH  LULLABY  89 

Our  harp  is  on  the  willow-tree — 
I  have  no  song  to  sing  to  thee, 

As  shadows  around  us  roll: 
But,  hush  and  sleep,  and  thou  shalt  hear 
Jehovah's  voice  that  speaks  to  cheer 

Judea's  fainting  soul ! 


Hrmenfan 


If  thou  wilt  close  thy  drowsy  eyes, 
My  mulberry  one,  my  golden  sun  ! 

The  rose  shall  sing  thee  lullabies 
My  pretty  cosset  lambkin  ! 

And  thou  shalt  swing  in  an  almond-tree, 

With  a  flood  of  moonbeams  rocking  thee- 

A  silver  boat  in  a  golden  sea  — 

My  own  velvet  love,  my  nestling  dove, 
My  own  pomegranate  blossom  ! 

The  stork  shall  guard  thee  passing  well 
All  night,  my  sweet  !  my  dimple-feet  ! 
And  bring  thee  myrrh  and  asphodel, 

My  gentle  rain-of-springtime  ! 
And  for  thy  slumbrous  play  shall  twine 
The  diamond  stars  with  an  emerald  vine  — 
To  trail  in  the  waves  of  ruby  wine  — 
My  myrtle  bloom,  my  heart's  perfume, 
My  little  chirping  sparrow! 

And  when  the  morn  wakes  up  to  see 

My  apple  bright,  my  soul's  delight  ! 
90 


ARMENIAN  LULLABY  91 

The  partridge  shall  come  calling  thee, 

My  jar  of  milk-and-honey ! 
Yes,  thou  shalt  know  what  mystery  lies 
In  the  amethyst  deep  of  the  curtained  skies, 
If  thou  wilt  fold  thy  onyx  eyes, 

You  wakeful  one,  you  naughty  son, 
You  cooing  little  turtle  1 


Cornisb 


Out  on  the  mountain  over  the  town 

All  night  long,  all  night  long, 
The  trolls  go  up  and  the  trolls  go  down, 

Bearing  their  packs  and  crooning  a  song; 
And  this  is  the  song  the  hill-folk  croon, 
As  they  trudge  in  the  light  of  the  misty  moon,- 
This  is  ever  their  dolorous  tune: 
"Gold,  gold  !  ever  more  gold,  — 

Bright  red  gold  for  dearie  I" 

Deep  in  the  hill  the  yeoman  delves 

All  night  long,  all  night  long; 
None  but  the  peeping,  furtive  elves 

See  his  toil  and  hear  his  song; 
Merrily  ever  the  cavern  rings 
As  merrily  ever  his  pick  he  swings, 
And  merrily  ever  this  song  he  sings: 
"Gold,  gold  !  ever  more  gold,  — 

Bright  red  gold  for  dearie  1" 

Mother  is  rocking  thy  lowly  bed 
All  night  long,  all  night  long, 
92 


CORNISH   LULLABY 


93 


Happy  to  smooth  thy  curly  head 

And  to  hold  thy  hand  and  to  sing  her  song; 
'Tis  not  of  the  hill-folk,  dwarfed  and  old, 
Nor  the  song  of  the  yeoman,  stanch  and  bold, 
And  the  burden  it  beareth  is  not  of  gold; 
But  it's  "Love,  love ! — nothing  but  love, — 
Mother's  love  for  dearie  1" 


/ifcotbec  ant)  CbtlO 


One  night  a  tiny  dewdrop  fell 

Into  the  bosom  of  a  rose,  — 
"Dear  little  one,  I  love  thee  well, 

Be  ever  here  thy  sweet  repose  1" 

Seeing  the  rose  with  love  bedight, 
The  envious  sky  frowned  dark,  and  then 

Sent  forth  a  messenger  of  light 
And  caught  the  dewdrop  up  again. 

"Oh,  give  me  back  my  heavenly  child,  — 
My  love  !"  the  rose  in  anguish  cried; 

Alas  !  the  sky  triumphant  smiled, 
And  so  the  flower,  heart-broken,  died. 


94 


TOe  Uwo  OLittle  Sfeeesucfcs 


There  were  two  little  skeezucks  who  lived  in 

the  isle 

Of  Boo  in  a  southern  sea; 
They  clambered  and  rollicked  in  heathenish 

style 

In  the  boughs  of  their  cocoanut  tree. 
They  didn't  fret  much  about  clothing  and  such, 
And  they  recked  not  a  whit  of  the  ills 
That  sometimes  accrue 
From  having  to  do 
With  tailor  and  laundry  bills. 

The    two   little   skeezucks   once    heard  of  a 

Fair 

Far  off  from  their  native  isle, 
And  they  asked  of  King  Fan  if  they  mightn't 

go  there 

To  take  in  the  sights  for  a  while. 
Now  old  King  Fan 
Was  a  good-natured  man 
(As  good-natured  monarchs  go), 
And  howbeit  he  swore  that  all  Fairs  were  a 

bore, 
He  hadn't  the  heart  to  say  "No." 

95 


96        THE  TWO  LITTLE  SKEEZUCKS 

So  the  two  little  skeezucks  sailed  off  to  the 

Fair 

In  a  great  big  gum  canoe, 
And  I  fancy  they  had  a  good  time  there, 

For  they  tarried  a  year  or  two, 
And  old  King  Fan  at  last  began 
To  reckon  they'd  come  to  grief, 
When,  glory!  one  day 
They  sailed  into  the  bay 
To  the  tune  of  "Hail  to  the  Chief!" 

The  two  little  skeezucks  fell  down  on  the  sand, 

Embracing  his  majesty's  toes, 
Till  his  majesty  graciously  bade  them  stand 
And  salute  him  nose  to  nose. 
And  then  quoth  he: 
"Divulge  unto  me 

What  happenings  have  hapt  to  you; 
And  how  did  they  dare  to  indulge  in  a  Fair 
So  far  from  the  island  of  Boo  ?" 

The  two  little  skeezucks  assured  their  king 
That  what  he  surmised  was  true; 

That  the  Fair  would  have   been  a  different 

thing 
Had  it  only  been  held  in  Boo ! 

"The  folk  over  there  in  no  wise  compare 
With  the  folk  of  the  southern  seas; 


THE  TWO  LITTLE  SKEEZUCKS        97 

Why,  they  comb  out  their  heads 
And  they  sleep  in  beds 
Instead  of  in  caverns  and  trees  I" 

The  two  little  skeezucks  went  on  to  say 

That  children  (so  far  as  they  knew) 
Had  a  much  harder  time  in  that  land  far  away 
Than  here  in  the  island  of  Boo ! 
They  have  to  wear  clo'es 
Which  (as  every  one  knows) 
Are  irksome  to  primitive  laddies, 
While,  with  forks   and  with    spoons,  they're 

denied  the  sweet  boons 
That  accrue  from  free  use  of  one's  paddies ! 

"And  now  that  you're  speaking  of  things  to 

eat," 

Interrupted  the  monarch  of  Boo, 
"We  beg  to  inquire  if  you  happened  to  meet 

With  a  nice  missionary  or  two  ?" 
"No!  that  did  we  not;  in  that  curious  spot 
Where  were  gathered  the  fruits  of  the  earth, 
Of  that  special  kind 
Which  Your  Nibs  has  in  mind 
There  appeared  a  deplorable  dearth  1" 

Then  loud  laughed  that  monarch  in  heathenish 

mirth, 
And  laughed  his  courtiers,  too, 


98        THE  TWO  LITTLE  SKEEZUCKS 

And  they  cried:  "There  is  elsewhere  no  land 

upon  earth 

So  good  as  our  island  of  Boo !" 
And  the  skeezucks,  tho'  glad 
Of  the  journey  they'd  had, 
Climbed  up  in  their  cocoanut  trees, 
Where  they  still  may  be  seen  with  no  shirts  to 

keep  clean 
Or  trousers  that  bag  at  the  knees. 


in  S>ort>recbt 


The  mill  goes  toiling  slowly  around, 

With  steady  and  solemn  creak, 
And  my  little  one  hears  in  the  kindly  sound 

The  voice  of  the  old  mill  speak. 
While  round  and  round  those  big  white  wings 

Grimly  and  ghostlike  creep, 
My  little  one  hears  that  the  old  mill  sings: 

"Sleep,  little  tulip,  sleep  !" 

The  sails  are  reefed  and  the  nets  are  drawn, 

And,  over  his  pot  of  beer, 
The  fisher,  against  the  morning's  dawn, 

Lustily  maketh  cheer; 
He  mocks  at  the  winds  that  caper  along 

From  the  far-off  clamorous  deep,  — 
But  we  —  we  love  their  lullaby  song 

Of,  "Sleep,  little  tulip,  sleep  I" 

Old  dog  Fritz  in  slumber  sound 

Groans  of  the  stony  mart,  — 
To-morrow  how  proudly  he'll  trot  you  round, 

Hitched  to  our  new  milk-cart! 

99 


ioo        NIGHTFALL  IN   DORDRECHT 

And  you  shall  help  me  blanket  the  kine 

And  fold  the  gentle  sheep, 
And  set  the  herring  a-soak  in  brine, — 

But  now,  little  tulip,  sleep ! 

A  Dream-One  comes  to  button  the  eyes 

That  wearily  droop  and  blink, 
While  the  old  mill  buffets  the  frowning  skies 

And  scolds  at  the  stars  that  wink; 
Over  your  face  the  misty  wings 

Of  that  beautiful  Dream-One  sweep, 
And,  rocking  your  cradle,  she  softly  sings: 

"Sleep,  little  tulip,  sleepj" 


Storfc 


Last  night  the  Stork  came  stalking,  — 

And,  Stork,  beneath  your  wing 
Lay,  lapped  in  dreamless  slumber, 

The  tiniest  little  thing  ! 
From  Babyland,  out  yonder 

Beside  a  silver  sea, 
You  brought  a  priceless  treasure 

As  gift  to  mine  and  me  ! 

Last  night  my  dear  one  listened,  — 

And,  wife,  you  knew  the  cry,  — 
The  dear  old  Stork  has  sought  our  home 

A  many  times  gone  by  ! 
And  in  your  gentle  bosom 

I  found  the  pretty  thing 
That  from  the  realm  out  yonder 

Our  friend  the  Stork  did  bring. 

Last  night  a  babe  awakened,  — 
And,  babe,  how  strange  and  new 

Must  seem  the  home  and  people 
The  Stork  hath  brought  you  to; 

10  1 


102  THE  STORK 

And  yet,  methinks  you  like  them, — 
You  neither  stare  nor  weep, 

But  closer  to  my  dear  one 
You  cuddle,  and  you  sleep ! 

Last  night  my  heart  grew  fonder — 

O  happy  heart  of  mine, 
Sing  of  the  inspirations 

That  round  my  pathway  shine ! 
And  sing  your  sweetest  love-song 

To  this  dear,  nestling  wee 
The  Stork  from  'Way-Out-Yonder 

Hath  brought  to  mine  and  me ! 


Ht 


Play  that  you  are  a  mother  dear, 

And  play  that  papa  is  your  beau; 
Play  that  we  sit  in  the  corner  here, 

Just  as  we  used  to,  long  ago. 
Playing  so,  we  lovers  two 

Are  just  as  happy  as  we  can  be, 
And  I'll  say  "I  love  you"  to  you, 

And  you  say  "I  love  you"  to  me  ! 
"I  love  you"  we  both  shall  say, 
All  in  earnest  and  all  in  play. 

Or,  play  that  you  are  that  other  one 

That  some  time  came,  and  went  away; 
And  play  that  the  light  of  years  agone 

Stole  into  my  heart  again  to-day  ! 
Playing  that  you  are  the  one  I  knew 

In  the  days  that  never  again  may  be, 
I'll  say  "I  love  you"  to  you, 

And  you  say  "I  love  you"  to  me  ! 
"I  love  you  !"  my  heart  shall  say 

To  the  ghost  of  the  past  come  back  to-day  1 
103 


104  AT  PLAY 

Or,  play  that  you  sought  this  nestling-place 

For  your  own  sweet  self,  with  that  dual 

guise 
Of  your  pretty  mother  in  your  face 

And  the  look  of  that  other  in  your  eyes ! 
So  the  dear  old  loves  shall  live  anew 

As  I  hold  my  darling  on  my  knee, 
And  I'll  say  "I  love  you"  to  you, 

And  you  say  "I  love  you"  to  me ! 
Oh,  many  a  strange,  true  thing  we  say 
And  do  when  we  pretend  to  play  1 


Englisb  /iDince  pie 


The  last  of  the  Thanksgiving  mince  pie  is 
gone;  its  end  was  as  mysterious  and  porten 
tous  as  its  beginning  and  its  career.  I  refer, 
of  course,  to  the  London  mince  pie,  the  occult 
conglomeration  which  we  were  beguiled  into 
buying  last  November,  while  we  labored  under 
the  delusion  that  to  buy  a  mince  pie  was  the 
patriotic  thing  for  an  American  to  do. 

I  remember  the  day  distinctly;  it  was  one  of 
those  cheerful,  typical,  foggy,  suicidal  days  in 
which  this  London  climate  abounds.  We 
were  sitting  in  a  drawing-room  in  the  Quad 
rant.  The  slavey  had  just  replenished  the 
grate  fire,  and  Colonel  Reid,  Cowen,  Harry 
Dam,  Tom  Fielders,  and  I,  —  as  superb  a 
quintet  of  dyspeptics  as  ever  discussed  high 
food  and  hot  biscuits,  —  gathered  around  the 
hearthstone  and  gazed  into  the  flickering 
flames  and  talked  about  Thanksgiving  din 
ner.  It  was  agreed  that  turkey  should  be 

the  piece  de  resistance,  and  we   rejoiced  to 

105 


io6  THE  ENGLISH  MINCE  PIE 

hear  Tom  Fielders  say  that  he  had  heard 
Ralph  Meeker  tell  somebody  else  that  Leigh 
Lynch  had  told  him  that  genuine  American 
cranberries  could  be  bought  at  a  shop  under 
Egyptian  Hall  in  Piccadilly.  With  turkey 
and  genuine  cranberry  sauce  we  should  be 
happy,  and  with  that  combination  we  should 
have  been  satisfied.  But  in  an  unlucky  mo 
ment  I  ventured  the  suggestion  that  without  a 
mince  pie  to  symmetrize  it  no  Thanksgiving 
dinner  could  be  complete.  A  profound  grunt 
of  approval  all  around  assured  me  that  I  had 
the  sympathy  of  the  entire  community. 

"And  I  know  where  mince  pies  can  be 
bought,"  said  Harry  Dam.  "I  understand 
that  there  is  but  one  caterer's  in  town  where 
satisfaction  is  guaranteed.  That  is  Buszard's 
in  Oxford  Street." 

"I  do  not  know  that  I  particularly  fancy  that 
name,"  remarked  Colonel  Reid.  "Buszard  is 
a  significant,  not  to  say  an  ominous,  name;  as 
one  who  has  always  been  loyal  to  the  eagle,  I 
object  to  Buszard." 

"But  really,  colonel,"  expostulated  Tom 
Fielders,  "Buszard  is  the  swell  caterer  of  Lon 
don;  for  years  he  has  pandered  to  the  royal 
household  and  to  the  nobility,  and  his  shop  is 
regarded  hereabouts  as  the  Mecca  for  all  in 


THE  ENGLISH  MINCE  PIE  107 

quest  of  sapid,  succulent,  and  savory  viands. 
If  anybody  can  make  a  mince  pie,  Buszard 
can." 

The  result  of  the  talk  was  that  we  all  became 
highly  enthusiastic  on  the  subject  of  Buszard's 
mince  pies,  and  when  Cowen  and  I  left  the 
cheerful  bachelor  chambers  we  proceeded 
forthwith  to  Buszard's  shop,  a  somewhat  pre 
tentious  shop  in  Oxford  Street  just  off  Regent. 
The  show  -  windows  were  filled  with  divers- 
colored  confections,  the  tables  were  covered 
with  truculent-looking  puddings  and  cakes, 
and  the  atmosphere  was  laden  with  a  per 
fume  as  of  boiling  maple  sap. 

It  was  our  misfortune  to  fall  into  the 
clutches  of  a  sallow-faced  young  man  wearing 
a  checkered  suit  of  clothes,  a  dark-red  neck 
tie,  and  a  head  of  coarse  black  hair  larded 
down  with  odoriferous  bear's  grease — one  of 
those  garrulous  young  chappies  who  know  it 
all  and  tell  more.  He  assured  us  that  "we" 
could  make  a  mince  pie — he  called  it  ?'poy";  he 
knew  what  a  genuine  American  mince  pie  was, 
had  often  made  them  for  Americans,  and 
would  guarantee  entire  satisfaction.  Miser 
able  dupes  that  we  were,  we  trusted  the 
loquacious  cockney  How  much  would  a  pie,  a 
genuine  American  mince  pie,  with  real  apples 


io8  THE  ENGLISH  MINCE  PIE 

and  real  meat  in  it,  cost  us?  We  were  some 
what  startled  when  he  answered  half  a  guinea. 
We  told  him  that  this  was  simple  extor 
tion — nay,  the  equivalent  of  $2.65  for  a  mince 
pie  was  unadulterated  robbery !  Why,  in  Pot 
ter  Palmer's  conscienceless  restaurant  in  Chi 
cago  the  finest  native  mince  pie  cost  only  $i, 
and  that  included  melted  cheese  on  top,  and  a 
genuine  Senegambian  prince  at  the  side  to 
serve  it  on  hot  plates.  We  rebelled  against 
half  a  guinea  as  a  man  would  take  up  arms 
against  the  iron  heel  of  oppression.  The 
garrulous  young  cockney  then  said  that  "we" 
would  consult  with  the  manager,  and  he  dis 
appeared  through  a  swinging  door,  only  to 
return  presently  to  announce  sententiously 
that  seven  and  six  was  the  very,  very  lowest 
price  for  which  the  pie  could  be  provided. 
Fancying  that  we  could  do  no  better,  we  paid 
the  low-browed  robber  that  amount  of  money 
and  bade  him  send  the  pie  to  our  lodgings 
upon  Thanksgiving  afternoon,  not  later  than 
three  o'clock,  Greenwich  time. 

At  the  appointed  hour,  surely  enough,  the 
goods  (you  see  I  speak  cautiously)  were  deliv 
ered  in  an  oblong  box,  which,  upon  examina 
tion,  was  found  to  contain  a  dish,  and  in  the 
dish  was  the  pie,  or  rather  a  pie,  still  warm. 


THE  ENGLISH  MINCE  PIE  109 

The  dish  was  oval  in  shape,  ten  inches  long 
and  four  inches  in  depth. 

I  asked  the  servant  if  she  knew  what  it  was. 

"Yes,  sir;  it's  a  Yorkshire  pudding,"  said  she. 

"Put  it  away,"  said  I. 

Billy  Knox  and  J.  L.  Sclanders,  old  news 
paper  co-workers  from  Chicago,  dined  with  us. 

"Now,  boys,"  said  I,  at  last,  "I've  got  a  sur 
prise  for  you";  and  the  servant  produced  the 
pie — Buszard's  mince  "poy." 

"I  thought  we  were  going  to  have  mince 
pie  ?"  said  Cowen. 

"So  we  are,"  said  I. 

"Ah,  it's  to  come  later?" 

"No,  this  is  it." 

"That  isn't  a  mince  pie,"  expostulated 
Cowen;  "that's  a  pudding.  Nobody  ever  saw 
a  mince  pie  served  in  a  bowl !" 

"But  it  is  a  mince  pie,"  I  insisted.  "The 
leading  London  caterer  made  it;  and  it  must 
be  good." 

I  served  the  pie  liberally.  I  did  not  dare 
eat  any  myself,  for  the  doctor  had  forbidden 
that  sort  of  thing.  Then,  too,  on  Thanksgiv 
ing  day  one  can  afford  to  be  princely  even  in 
doling  out  pie  at  seven  and  six. 

The  pie  had  a  thick  double  crust  (by  which 
I  mean  an  upper  and  a  lower  crust),  and  be- 


1 10  THE  ENGLISH  MINCE  PIE 

tween  these  crusts  (id  est,  supra  et  infra)  lay  a 
black  mass  of  lovely  indigestible  matter  that 
smelled  like  a  barber's  shop. 

Three  inches  of  mince  meat;  think  of  it, 
ye  housewives  of  my  beloved  native  land ! 

I  felt  indignant  when  I  saw  that  our  guests 
did  not  devour  the  viand  with  voracity.  I 
knew  that  the  pie  was  good;  it  must  be  good, 
it  had  to  be  good,  at  seven  and  six ! 

"I  think  you  must  be  mistaken  about  this," 
said  my  friend  Knox,  cautiously.  "I  have 
eaten  mince  pie  all  my  life, — mince  pie  in  the 
sacred  groves  of  the  Des  Plaines,  mince  pie  in 
the  academic  shades  of  Evanston,  mince  pie 
in  the  black-jack  thickets  of  Egypt,  and  mince 
pie  in  the  subterranean  recesses  of  the  Boston 
Oyster-house, — but  never,  no,  never  before, 
have  I  tasted  mince  pie  like  this  mince  pie. 
As  I  figure  it,  without  prejudice,  this  is  more 
like  a  fruit  pudding." 

My  friend  Sclanders  said  that  upon  one 
occasion,  while  he  was  a  student  in  Munich,  he 
had  seen  and  partaken  of  a  dish  that  quite 
resembled  this  particular  dish;  as  he  recol 
lected,  it  was  called  Splutterungenleischlied- 
gehabten.  As  for  my  old  chum,  Cowen,  he 
had  done  (with  every  possible  variation)  all  the 
territory  between  Buenavista,  Colorado,  and 


THE  ENGLISH  MINCE  PIE 

Vienna,  Austria,  and  he  had  never  before  met 
up  with  mince  pie  the  like  of  this  mince  pie. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  what  was  left 
of  Buszard's  mince  pie  was  set  away  in  a  corner 
of  the  cupboard,  and  Buszard's  name  was  fre 
quently  but  not  felicitously  mentioned. 

In  some  way  or  other  it  got  noised  about 
that  we  had  a  genuine  American  mince  pie  in 
the  house,  and  forthwith  the  Americans  began 
to  flock  in  upon  us  from  every  side.  Ralph 
Meeker  and  his  wife  were  amongst  the  first. 
Having  had  dyspepsia  twenty  years,  Ralph 
was  a  mince-pie  virtuoso.  He  just  looked  at 
our  mince  pie  and  said:  "That's  no  pie;  that's 
a  Scotch  bun !" 

J.  P.  Andrews  of  Grand  Rapids,  Mich.,  went 
so  far  as  to  taste  it,  and  for  weeks  and  weeks 
afterward  he  said  he  felt  as  if  he  had  a  slab 
of  verd-antique  marble  in  his  stomach. 

M.  E.  Stone  tried  it,  and  then  (just  like 
him !)  he  posted  off  to  Scotland  Yard  and 
hired  a  gang  of  detectives  to  find  some  clew  as 
to  what  it  was. 

John  C.  New  took  a  piece  of  it  to  his  office 
with  him,  and  used  it  for  a  paper-weight. 
Will  Eaton  thought  that  the  substratum  of 
the  pie  looked  a  good  deal  like  the  vein  of  a 
coal-mine  he  once  owned  out  in  Iowa.  And  so, 


112  THE  ENGLISH  MINCE  PIE 

in  one  way  and  another,  they  all  heaped  con 
tumely  and  obloquy  upon  that  pie — that  mince 
pie  for  which  I  had  paid  Buszard  seven  and 
six. 

Once — now,  this  is  a  confession  I  have  never 
made  before — once,  I  say,  I  arose  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  night  and  stole  to  the  cupboard  and 
partook  of  that  swarthy  pie.  I  was  curious  to 
determine  for  myself  whether  the  pie  merited 
all  this  ribald  abuse,  and  whether  a  serious 
injustice  was  not  being  done  to  Buszard.  The 
result  of  my  investigation  was  complimentary 
neither  to  the  pie  nor  to  its  compounder. 

We  then  went  back  to  bed, — the  piece  of  pie 
and  I, — and  in  dreams  I  saw  a  gaunt  figure  rise 
from  a  dark  corner  and  approach  me  with 
the  words:  "At  last,  son-in-law,  I  have  thee  in 
my  power."  Next  morning  we  arose, — that 
piece  of  pie  and  I, — and  I  was  pale,  exhausted, 
trembling.  We  kept  company  many  moons. 
Had  it  not  been  for  my  wife,  a  most  frugal 
soul,  I  should  have  thrown  the  remnants  of 
the  pie  away,  but  my  wife  represented  that  it 
would  be  wicked  to  indulge  in  such  extrav 
agance.  As  it  was,  I  did  upon  one  occasion 
cast  some  bits  of  the  pie  to  the  sparrows  that 
clustered,  shiveringly  and  appealingly,  upon 
the  rail  of  the  window  balcony.  It  was 


THE  ENGLISH  MINCE  PIE  113 

pathetic  to  see  each  hungry  little  creature  hop 
down  and  pick  up  a  crumb  of  the  pie  and  hold 
it  in  his  mouth  and  roll  his  eyes  back  and 
think,  then  sneeze,  drop  the  crumb,  and  fly 
away,  never  to  return. 

A  week  ago  last  Sunday  the  dolorous  tones 
of  a  hand-organ  came  up  from  the  street 
below.  A  poor  woman,  wretchedly  clad,  was 
grinding  out  the  melancholy  tune  of  "Shall 
We  Gather  at  the  River?"  It  was  a  dreary, 
raw,  chilly  day.  The  woman  looked  pinched 
and  hungry  Her  husband,  as  ill  clad  as  she, 
was  wandering  from  house  to  house,  beseech 
ing  pennies. 

"My  dear,"  said  I  to  wife,  "would  it  not  be 
wise  to  give  the  rest  of  our  mince  pie  to  this 
poor  woman,  who  is  perhaps  the  mother  of 
starving  little  ones  ?" 

That  finish  caught  my  wife.  "Of  course," 
said  she.  "I  knew  we'd  put  the  pie  to  some 
good  use  if  we  only  kept  it  till  the  proper 
time  came." 

So  I  gathered  up  the  remnants  of  the  pie 
and  carried  them  down-stairs  to  the  poor 
woman.  The  squalid  creature  seized  them 
eagerly  and  gulped  them  down  with  the 
ferocity  of  a  famished  wolf.  "Grazia,  sig- 
nore!"  I  heard  her  say,  as  I  walked  away. 


II4          THE  ENGLISH  MINCE  PIE 

Her  eyes  were  full  of  the  tears  of  gratitude. 
I  felt  that  I  had  done  a  worthy  deed. 

A  few  days  later  I  chanced  to  meet  Prof. 
Robert  Aylmer,  a  distinguished  chemist  from 
Boston.  He  told  me  that  a  friend  of  his  (Col. 
John  C.  Reid)  had  sent  him  for  chemical 
analysis  a  specimen  of  English  mince-meat, 
taken  from  a  mince  pie  compounded  by  one 
Crow,  an  eminent  London  baker. 

"You  mean  Buszard,"  said  I. 

"That  may  have  been  the  name,"  said  the 
professor.  "At  any  rate,  I  analyzed  the  speci 
men  and  found  it  a  curious  compound,  quite 
unlike  our  American  mince  pie.  The  con 
stituent  parts  of  this  composition  were,  as  I 
remember,  as  follows: 

Lemon  peel 10 

Orange  peel 10 

Citron 5 

Pineapple  rind 15 

Almonds 2 

Caraway  seeds 8 

Cocoanut 5 

Green  figs 2 

Brussels  sprouts 10 

Prunes  3 

Epp's  cocoa 2 

Scotch  whiskey 3 

Stilton  cheese 5 

Pears'  soap 20 

Total .IOC 


THE  ENGLISH  MINCE  PIE  115 

There  was  a  slight  trace  of  Thames  water,  but 
I  deemed  it  hardly  sufficient  to  be  noticed. 
Altogether,  the  compound  is  a  baleful  one — 
as  deadly,  I  think,  as  the  breath  of  the  vam 
pire  or  the  shade  of  the  upas.  I  have  sent  a 
specimen  to  Professor  Pasteur,  in  order  that 
he  may  apply  the  biologic  test,  to  determine  if 
there  be  in  it  a  germ  likely  to  induce  an  epi 
demic." 

So  much  for  the  scientific  view  of  the  Ameri 
can  mince  pie  as  concocted  by  Buszard,  the 
swell  caterer  of  London.  I  am  no  scientist;  I 
am  simply  a  modest  chronicler  of  passing 
events. 

Last  Sunday  I  sat  in  this  same  chair,  here  in 
these  humble  lodgings,  when  suddenly  came 
up  from  the  street  below  the  voice  of  that 
old,  dolorous  tune,  "Shall  We  Gather  at  the 
River?" 

"It  is  the  poor  swart  daughter  of  Italy/*  I 
sighed;  "she  has  come  back  gaunt  and  hun 
gry.  I  would  that  I  had  food  for  her." 

Overflowing  as  to  my  heart  with  pity,  I  went 
to  the  window  and  looked  down  at  the  sorry 
wretch  grinding  that  wheezy  organ.  It  was 
the  husband,  tattered  and  wan  and  shivering. 
He  was  alone,  and  upon  his  left  arm  he  wore 
a  rude  strip  of  black  crape. 


r 

The  poet  has  said  that  in  the  springtime  the 
young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of 
love.  But  there  is  many  a  young  man  in  this 
great  world  of  ours  who  turns  his  vernal  atten 
tion  to  many  an  object  other  than  love — would 
that  he  did  not  I  How  shall  we  describe  him  ? 
Is  he  not  indescribable,  inexpressible,  ineffa 
ble?  He  is  known  the  world  over  in  every 
truly  happy  home  as  "Our  Boy,"  and,  in  spite 
of  his  deviltry,  and  in  spite  of  the  worry  he 
occasions  us,  who  is  there  among  us  that  will 
not  say  amen  to  the  sentiment,  "God  bless 
him"  ? 

In  this  mild,  malarious  weather  of  spring 
"Our  Boy"  arises  early  of  a  morning.  He 
has  rested  well;  a  dreamless  sleep  has  pre 
pared  him  for  another  day  of  conquest.  He 
begins  his  diurnal  career  by  awakening  the 
whole  household.  Perchance  he  drives  his 
velocipede  up  and  down  the  back  hall;  may  be 
he  enlivens  the  situation  in  the  kitchen  with  a 
rough-and-tumble  battle  with  the  argus-eyed 

116 


OUR    BOY  117 

hired  girl,  whose  blessed  prerogative  it  is  to 
defend  the  family  sugar  bowl  against  all 
depredatory  comers.  One  thing  can  be  de 
pended  upon:  "Our  Boy"  will  let  everybody 
within  hearing  distance  know  that  he  then  and 
there  is  on  earth  and  has  come  to  stay. 
Another  thing  can  be  depended  upon:  "Our 
Boy"  will  put  on  his  best  clothes  instead  of  his 
every-day  clothes  unless  his  sagacious  mother 
has  sequestered  those  best  clothes  in  one  of 
those  mysterious  hiding  places  which  woman 
kind  is  so  fertile  in  devising.  "Our  Boy"  is 
wondrously  proud  of  his  best  trousers — proud 
of  them  until  he  gets  them  on.  When  he  once 
gets  them  on  he  seems  to  be  equally  proud  of 
ruining  them  as  fast  as  he  can. 

The  game  of  marbles  is  an  invention  of  the 
devil  in  the  interest  of  tailors  and  to  the  dis 
traction  of  mothers.  The  morning  and  the 
evening  of  the  first  day  constitute  the  pathetic 
history  of  many  a  knickerbocker  at  this  season 
of  the  year.  A  plague  on  the  "mibs,"  the 
"alleys,"  the  "chinas,"  the  "agates,"  the  "bran 
dies,"  the  "flints,^  the  "catseyes,"  and  the  "car- 
nelians,"  we  say!  Why  is  it  that  the  boys  of 
to-day  are  not  as  proper,  as  neat,  and  as 
orderly  as  their  fathers  used  to  be  when  they 
were  boys?  Another  delight  which  engages 


n8  OUR   BOY 

"Our  Boy"  just  now  is  that  of  fishing.  Well, 
may  be  his  piscatorial  penchant  is  inherited; 
there  is  certainly  no  pleasanter  nor  more 
harmless  employment  than  that  of  angling. 
But  the  line  should  be  drawn  at  the  practice 
which  "Our  Boy"  makes  of  wading  around  in 
two  feet  of  water,  netting  minnows  two  inches 
long.  This  practice  would  seem  to  prove  to 
our  complete  satisfaction  that  our  boys  are  de 
generate. 

But  what  adds  insult  to  injury  is  the  habit 
which  "Our  Boy"  has  fallen  into  of  bringing 
his  wretched  little  fish  home  in  oyster  cans 
and  dumping  them  for  permanent  abode  in 
the  family  bath-tub.  It  is  a  mighty  cheerful 
thing  for  a  father  to  march  into  a  bath-room 
for  purposes  of  ablution,  only  to  find  the  tub 
half  full  of  wriggling  minnows.  To  add  to  his 
vexation,  these  miserable  fish  lie  close  to  the 
top  of  the  water  and  thrust  their  heads  half 
out  and  mouth  at  one  as  if  mocking  him. 
Wretched  creatures,  we  would  the  pickerel 
had  you  all ! 

But  before  all  marbles  that  roll  and  all  fish 
that  swim,  "Our  Boy"  loves  the  dog;  the 
measlier  the  dog  the  more  lovable  is  he  in  the 
eyes  of  "Our  Boy."  Why  is  it,  we  wonder — 
can  anybody  explain  it — that  "Our  Boy's"  dog 


OUR    BOY  119 

is  always  a  tramp  and  always  of  the  feminine 
gender?  Another  thing  that  excites  our  won 
der  is  the  universal  fact  that  "Our  Boy"  is 
hardly  able  to  carry  his  spelling  book  to  and 
from  school,  and  yet  thinks  nothing  of  lugging 
a  dog  four  miles  and  a  half.  "Our  Boy"  may 
not  weigh  forty-five  pounds,  but  every  blessed 
day  of  his  life  he  comes  into  the  house  carry 
ing  a  125-pound  dog  under  his  arm  with  ease 
and  with  enthusiasm. 

And  the  beauty  of  it  is  that  the  miserable, 
ore-eyed,  mangy  cur  seems  to  enjoy  "Our  Boy" 
quite  as  much  as  "Our  Boy"  enjoys  the  cur. 
Well,  that's  where  the  cur's  head  is  level,  for 
the  cur  not  only  gets  the  best  edibles  in  the 
house  but  is  decorated  with  the  choicest  rib 
bons  "Our  Boy"  can  find  in  his  mother's 
bureau,  and  is  honored  with  a  name  wholly 
unfitte  to  one  of  the  cur's  sex. 

So  it  is  that  "Our  Boy"  lives  and  moves  and 
has  his  being.  And  between  his  marbles  and 
his  fish  and  his  wretched  dogs  and  his  thou 
sand  other  grotesque  delights,  he  worries  his 
poor  old  father  and  his  patient  mother  nearly 
into  their  untimely  graves.  Yet  when  the 
day  is  done  and  "Our  Boy"  goes  to  that 
dreamless  sleep  of  his,  who,  seeing  the  inno 
cent  beauty  of  his  slumbering  face,  does  not 


120  OUR   BOY 

forget  the  care  he  has  brought  and  think  only 
of  the  music  and  the  sunshine  of  his  little 
life? 

4iAh,  there  he  lies — so  peaceful  like — 

God  bless  his  golden  headl 
We  quite  forgive  the  little  tyke 
For  the  ill  he's  done  or  said." 


Ubree 


An  o'erweening  love  for  brute  pets  seems  to 
be  one  of  the  sure  signs  of  the  degeneracy  of 
the  rising  generation.  We  do  not  remember 
that  in  the  halcyon  days  of  youth  we  were 
addicted  to  any  of  the  monstrosities  which, 
within  the  last  two  years,  we  have  found  in 
the  possession  of  the  three  boys  who  are 
bringing  our  scant  hair  in  sorrow  to  the  grave. 
In  fact,  when  we  compare  the  exceeding  pro 
priety  of  our  own  youth  with  the  shocking 
depravity  of  our  progeny,  we  are  disposed  to 
think  that  our  civilization  is  a  failure. 

We  now  desire  to  say  a  few  words  on  the 
subject  of  rabbits. 

About  ten  days  ago  the  three  boys  above 
referred  to  came  back  from  a  foraging  expe 
dition  with  a  rabbit — a  sort  of  brindle  rabbit 
with  albino  eyes  and  a  tail  like  a  cottonwood 
blow.  We  represented  to  the  boys  that,  with 
a  lame  chicken  dodging  around  in  the  front 
chamber,  the  bath-tub  full  of  minnows  and 
crawfish,  a  brood  of  unfledged  chimney-swal 
lows  in  the  lower  drawer  of  their  mother's 

121 


122  THREE    BOYS 

bureau,  a  pouter-pigeon  roosting  on  our  folio 
edition  of  Bunyan,  and  a  disreputable  dog 
sprawling  about  on  the  furniture,  a  once  happy 
home  had  been  made  about  as  miserable  as  it 
could  stand. 

"But  it's  a  wabbit!  oh,  such  a  pooty  wab 
bit  I" 

Finally — we  wonder  why  it  is  that  a  mother 
always  takes  up  her  boys — finally,  we  say,  all 
the  parties  concerned  agreed  to  a  compromise 
under  the  terms  of  which  the  lame  chicken,  the 
crawfish,  the  minnows,  the  pouter-pigeon,  and 
the  chimney-swallows  were  to  go,  incon 
tinently,  and  the  "wabbit"  was  to  remain. 
The  boys  were  to  have  the  "wabbit,"  and 
nothing  else  whatever — not  even  tickets  to  the 
circus !  So  the  "wabbit"  was  turned  loose  in 
the  back  yard  and  for  a  considerable  time  was 
seen  no  more.  Next  morning  a  small,  round, 
dark  hole  burrowed  diagonally  into  the  rich, 
loamy  earth  of  the  back  yard  indicated  that  the 
rabbit  had  retired  temporarily  from  civiliza 
tion.  About  three  times  a  day  the  boys  used 
to  go  out  in  the  back  yard  and  empty  water 
and  preserves  and  cake  into  the  hole,  in  order 
that  the  rabbit  might  not  perish  of  thirst  or 
starvation. 

In  about  two  days  the  house  began  to  settle 


THREE   BOYS  123 

and  John  Root,  whom  we  summoned  to  inves 
tigate  the  proceedings  professionally,  was 
greatly  puzzled.  He  found  the  foundation  of 
the  house  entirely  adequate,  yet  it  was  plain 
that  the  foundation  was  undermined  and  was 
sinking.  Next  day  the  northwest  corner  of  a 
neighbor's  house  sunk  fourteen  inches,  giving 
the  beholder  the  impression  that  the  house 
was  located  on  a  side  hill;  it  made  a  person 
seasick  to  look  at  it. 

Presently  other  houses  in  the  block  began  to 
settle,  and  by  this  time  there  was  a  general 
alarm. 

Mr.  Root  called  a  consultation  of  the  lead 
ing  experts,  but  there  was  a  diversity  of  opin 
ion  as  to  the  causes  of  this  remarkable 
deflection  of  the  earth's  surface.  The  most 
plausible  theory  seemed  to  be  that  a  secret 
subterranean  eddy  or  whirlpool  had  crept  in 
from  the  lake  and  was  slowly  crumbling  the 
earth  from  under  the  foundations  of  the  struc 
tures  in  question.  It  was  determined  to  apply 
a  test,  and  accordingly  men  were  set  to  work 
with  a  long  steel  borer — the  kind  that  is  used 
for  boring  wells  in  the  prairie.  After  boring 
half  a  day  the  men  pulled  up  the  auger  in  the 
expectation  that  a  fountain  of  crystal  lake 
water  would  bubble  forth.  But  instead  of 


124  THREE   BOYS 

water  what  should  issue  from  the  earth  but 
that  rabbit,  followed  by  the  smaller  rabbits, 
all  with  albino  eyes  and  tails  like  cottonwood 
blows ! 

It  now  appeared  to  Mr.  Root  and  to  his 
syndicate  of  fellow-scientists  (and  it  was 
equally  clear  to  us)  that  these  rabbits  had 
caused  the  mischief;  that,  observing  their 
inscrutable  instincts,  they  had  burrowed  hither 
and  thither,  up  and  down,  rectangularly  and 
catacornered,  until,  as  a  result  of  their  diabol 
ical  industry,  they  had  undermined  the  whole 
neighborhood  with  a  network,  a  catacomb,  a 
labyrinth  of  subterranean  passages,  avenues, 
and  corridors. 

"Our  wabbit !  our  wabbit !  But  where  did 
all  dose  little  wabbits  come  from  ?" 

That  is  the  question  that  we  have  been 
unable  to  answer. 

We  never  supposed,  until  we  saw  it  demon 
strated,  that  merely  by  planting  a  rabbit  (as  you 
would  a  potato)  you  could  eventually  harvest 
a  large,  an  awful,  crop  of  rabbits  1 


Not  a  day  passes  that  we  do  not  find  in  the 
column  of  our  exchanges  many  sarcastic  flings 
at  one  of  the  most  useful  of  human  institu 
tions — viz.,  the  mother-in-law.  It  has  always 
been  an  occasion  of  surprise  and  of  chagrin  to 
us  that  men  of  seeming  intelligence  and  heart 
could  so  debase  their  manliness  as  to  jeer  at 
and  sneer  at  one  of  the  worthiest  classes  of 
womankind.  We  expect  low,  coarse  wit  of 
the  negro  minstrel,  and  we  are  not  amazed 
that  within  the  narrow  limitations  imposed  by 
his  lack  of  intelligence  and  of  delicacy  the 
negro  minstrel  should  utilize  the  mother-in- 
law  as  the  favorite  butt  of  his  vulgar  ridicule. 
But  when  we  see  this  tendency  exhibited  by 
men  who  pretend  to  more  elevated  purposes — 
by  those  who  claim  to  be  in  a  peculiar  sense 
educators  of  the  people  and  molders  of  public 
opinion — what  wonder  that  the  spectacle  ex 
cites  our  disgust  and  execration. 

A  vast  majority  of  men,  speaking  from  per 
sonal  experience,  would  say  with  us,  we  think, 

that  the  mother-in-law  is  one  of  the  most  wel- 

125 


126  THE   MOTHER-IN-LAW 

come,  most  convenient,  and  most  blessed 
features  in  social  and  domestic  economy. 
Surely  there  is  no  good  man  that,  thinking  of 
his  own  mother  and  of  his  own  grandmother, 
will  not  invoke  God's  sweetest  blessings  on 
the  dear  old  lady  who  is  his  wife's  mother  and 
his  children's  grandma. 

Shame  upon  us  if  we  were  to  defame  this 
patient,  kindly  friend ! 

Has  she  not  given  us  the  woman  who  makes 
life  worth  living?  Has  she  not  always  been 
ready  to  help  us  in  every  struggle,  to  comfort 
us  in  every  affliction,  and  to  lighten  the  bur 
den  of  domestic  cares  ?  Has  she  not  taught 
us  by  her  prudent  counsels  how  to  escape 
many  dangers  and  to  avoid  many  embarrass 
ments?  Has  she  not  exemplified  in  all  her 
associations  with  us  the  purity,  the  simplicity, 
and  the  patience  of  her  character,  and  the  dis 
interestedness  and  fullness  of  her  joy? 

Now,  when  it  comes  to  the  father-in-law,  we 
might  sing  in  a  different  key.  How  does  it 
happen  that  these  sarcastic  penny-a-liners  do 
not  devote  their  questionable  talents  to  a  dis 
cussion  of  the  father-in-law  —  the  cranky, 
wheezy,  gummy  old  gentleman  who  sits 
around  on  the  front  stoop  in  the  sun  all  day 
and  snores  like  a  planing-mill  all  night  ? 


THE   MOTHER-IN-LAW  127 

What  does  he  do  for  the  family  ?  What  does 
he  know  about  sick  children?  Have  you  ever 
seen  him  teaching  your  small  boy  how  to 
sharpen  a  slate  pencil  with  the  bread-knife? 
Has  he  inked  new  eyes  on  your  little  girl's  rag 
baby  ?  Did  he  ever  put  patches  on  the  knees 
of  the  boys'  trousers  and  keep  the  family 
darning  cleaned  up  to  date  ?  Has  he  ever 
gone  to  the  kitchen  and  cooked  a  meal  of 
victuals  whenever  the  hired  girl  flounced  off 
in  a  rage?  Has  he  ever  done  anything  but 
sodger  around  like  a  dog  with  a  sore  ear,  and 
talk  about  his  liver  and  complain  of  the 
degeneracy  of  the  times  ? 

Yet  you  witlings  humor  this  pesky  old  var 
mint  ;  why?  Because  you  hope  to  get  value 
received  when  his  will  is  probated.  Venal 
wretches  that  you  are,  you  tolerate  and  flat 
ter  this  mumbling  nuisance  while  you  execrate 
the  dear  old  saint  who  helps  you  to  hold  up 
your  hands  against  the  world. 

Always  busy  yet  always  cheerful,  continually 
annoyed  yet  always  patient,  her  useful  life 
should  have  our  gratitude,  our  praise,  our 
emulation.  She  is  content  with  little,  and  so 
used  has  she  become  to  work  that  if  she  is  ever 
disposed  to  rebel  it  is  against  the  promise  of 
rest  in  eternity. 


Ttbe  TEra0eWe  of  Elaine 


Yester  night  it  befell  that  our  joyous  citoyzen, 
McVicker  hight,  let  cne  a  play  wherein  was 
given  the  mournful  histories  of  Elaine,  the 
faire  maide  of  Astolate,  the  whyche  hath  been 
done  into  goodly  Englishe  verse  by  the 
renoned  minstrell  Lathrop  and  the  plaier 
Harry  Edouards.  Now  wit  ye  well  that  there 
was  a  full  merrie  concourse  of  peoples  from 
every  part,  comyng  with  plaisaunt  conversa 
tions  and  great  cheere  for  to  see  and  to  heere 
these  proper  histories  whereof  we  spoke.  In 
sooth,  never  hath  ther  ben  so  vast  and  so 
goodly  a  companie,  a  many  ladies  and  their 
knights  dight  right  fairly  and  making  joyous 
discourse.  But  anone  it  was  mervail  to  see 
how  that  the  high  and  mighty  gentles  did  wepe 
for  the  sorrowes  of  Elaine  1  It  maketh  the 
herte  glad  to  see  the  noble  porke  packers  and 
the  larde  refiners  and  eke  the  bourde  of  trade 
men  to  mone  and  make  great  dole  for  the  love 
of  a  faire  maide  that  dyed  full  ten  hundred 

yeres  syne.    But  certes,  ther  ben  soche  pitty  in 

128 


THE  TRAGEDIE  OF  ELAINE         129 

Chicago  that  by  as  moche  soap  as  a  man  hath 
by  so  moche  more  doth  it  beseem  him  to  make 
ado  when  that  he  is  so  minded.  So  it  was, 
yester  night,  that  the  most  grievous  weping 
was  made  by  the  gentles  with  the  bigest  wal 
lets  and  the  bigest  dimondes.  And  ther  ben 
one  pore  man  that  ben  trown  out  for  that  he 
did  moe  weping  than  he  had  a  right  to  do  on 
a  cheape  ticket. 

Whiles  they  let  do  the  first  intermission  we 
asket  the  full  riche  linseed  oil  dealer,  Beasley 
hight,  how  he  was  minded  towards  the  play. 

"Marry  come  up  with  a  wannion,"  quoth  he. 
"I  wend  it  ben  a  good  show,  but  not  as  good 
as  Camille." 

"Gadzooks,"  sales  the  porke  packer,  ycleped 
Bosbyshell,  "this  ben  rot!  But  that  I  wist 
they  wold  let  do  a  society  play,  be  Cokis 
blode,  I  had  gone  to  the  Arabian  Nights 
instead." 

Touching  the  same,  a  haut  member  of  the 
West  Syde  Browning  club  sayed  that  one 
rattling  ballay  coide  do  moe  business  in  Chi 
cago  than  thrice  seven  plays  that  be  made  of 
poesie. 

Then  whiles  the  folk  did  pass  full  merrily 
to  and  fro,  saying  wordes  of  cheere,  the 
orchestra  did  make  musick  as  ill  beseemed  the 


I3o         THE  TRAGEDIE  OF  ELAINE 

time  and  did  play  soche  tunes  as  "Sally  in  Our 
Alley,"  "I'm  a  Dude,"  "She  wears  a  dotted 
muslin,  tra,  la,  la,"  and  the  like.  Soothly  this 
orchestra  ben  great  mervail  and  hath  no  peer 
nowhere.  Ther  ben  12  men  in  that  orchestra 
and  they  let  do  one  tune  in  12  keys,  the 
whyche  maketh  our  bach  ake. 

Now  of  this  same  Elaine  of  Astolate  hath 
divers  persons  written,  of  which  the  most 
renoned  ben  Sr.  Tomas  Mallory,  knight,  and 
Lord  Alfred  Tennyson,  bart.,  but  never  hath 
none,  sithence  the  dales  wherein  she  made  her 
grievous  end,  told  of  that  maide  and  her 
unhappy  love  so  plaisauntly  as  hath  these 
same  the  whyche  did  make  this  play.  When 
that  this  play  was  first  let  do  in  New  York, 
ther  ben  critics  that  did  despite  it  sore,  for 
that  they  said  the  play  was  taken  from  Lord 
Tennyson,  and  ther  ben  one  critic  that  did 
shew  how  that  moche  was  therefrom,  whereat 
all  folk  laughen  loud  when  that  the  true 
author  shewed  this  to  be  not  no  soche  thing, 
but  that  hee  himself  writ  these  same  very 
words.  Of  this  hath  a  minstrell  made  this 
proper  sonet: 

A  New  York  critic,  Winter  hight, 
Upon  a  time  did  sore  despite 
A  play  &  him  as  he  wrote  it; 


THE  TRAGEDIE  OF  ELAINE          131 

He  set  a  straw  man  on  a  hill; 
Then,  couching  his  prodigious  quill, 
Most  grievously  he  smote  it. 

"Meseemeth,  'neath  that  poet  guise 
The  baseborn  caitiff  Lathrop  lies — 

And  he's  the  prey  I've  layed  for; 
&  it  behooves  me  now  to  fare 
Against  that  prey  and  raise  its  hair — 

Syn  that  is  what  I'm  paid  for." 

So  up  &  down  that  critic  rased 

&  backe  &  foorth  he  foyned  &  trased 

&  monstrous  strookes  deliverd; 
Till  that,  from  hacking  at  that  straw 
In  direst  wise  you  ever  saw, 

His  quill  was  all  to-shivered. 

&  when  he  made  an  end  at  last 

&  when  that  man  of  straw  was  brast 

Like  so  much  straw  asunder, 
Loud  laughen  peoples  all  to  see 
That  critic  angred  for  that  he 

Had  made  a  grewsome  blunder. 

It  was  not  Lathrop  that  he  slew, 
Though  that  was  what  he  meant  to  do 

With  his  egregious  feather; 
'Twas  Tennyson  he  slew  so  bold — 
Then  was  that  critic,  we  ben  told, 

Beset  by  wintry  weather. 


[32         THE  TRAGEDIE  OF  ELAINE 

Now  in  this  play  whereof  we  speke  ther  ben 
thirteen  actours — to-wit,  Kyng  Arthure,  sir 
Bernard,  the  lord  of  Astolate;  sir  Torre,  sir 
Launcelot,  sir  Lavaine,  a  dombe  man;  sir 
Gawaine,  a  holie  munck; '  a  harper,  queene 
Guenever,  Elaine,  the  maide  of  Astolate; 
Llanyed,  and  Roselle.  And  ther  ben  in  the 
play  five  partes,  most  faire  accoutred,  of  whych 
the  first  ben  in  a  hall  of  Arthure's  court 
wherein  the  full  evill  queen  doth  give  her  rede 
unto  sir  Launcelot  that  he  fare  to  the  jousts  at 
Astolate.  Then  come  we  to  Astolate  where 
ther  ben  a  feast  to  sir  Launcelot  with  great 
cheere,  and  then  doth  Elaine,  the  lilly  maide, 
be  assotted  upon  sir  Launcelot,  nor  knew  no 
maide  never  befo  none  soche  love  like  as  this 
love  of  the  faire  maide  for  sir  Launcelot.  But, 
soothly,  when  that  she  wolde  have  him  unto 
her  husbande  he  sayeth  her  nay,  for  that  he 
loves  the  queene  nor  none  other.  "Then 
shall  I  die,  y-wise,"  sales  shee;  and,  when  that 
he  ben  gone,  she  maketh  her  prayers  and  she 
lets  write  a  letter  to  sir  Launcelot  that  he  give 
the  masse  peny  and  that  he  pray  some  prayer 
more  or  lesse  for  her  soule,  and  so  shee  dies. 
Right  nobly  were  these  things  said  and  done, 
save  and  excepting  onely  that  the  damosel 
May  Brooking  ill  knew  her  lines  and  did  rase 


THE  TRAGEDIE  OF  ELAINE          133 

and  trase  about  the  stage  like  unto  a  steere  in 
a  box  carre.  But  of  yonge  Salvini  truly  colde 
it  be  said  that  he  was  sir  Launcelot  in  look 
and  werde  and  deede.  And  passing  faire  was 
the  queen  Guenever  that  the  damosel  Marie 
Burroughs  did  play.  But  a  wicked  queene 
shee  was,  and  full  of  evill  redes.  Verily,  it  is 
great  mervail  how  that  a  queene  colde  be  so 
evill  when  ther  ben  no  bourde  of  trade  men 
around. 

In  especiall  did  the  peoples  all  speke  to  the 
praise  of  the  lady  Anne  Russell,  for  that  she 
did  with  soche  mekeness  and  humility  and 
gentlenesse  pourtray  the  sorrowes  of  the 
maide  of  Astolate.  Soothly  had  the  maide 
hersell  been  there  and  had  shee  lived  her 
wofull  life  before  them  all,  ther  had  been  no 
greater  mone  nor  soche  dole  of  weping.  And 
when  that  the  barge  bearing  the  corpse  of  the 
gentle  maide  sweept  downe  the  flood  with  that 
dombe  man  at  the  helme,  then  wit  ye  well  the 
folk  fell  all  to  moning  full  sore  and  many  ther 
ben  of  the  ladies  had  like  to  swound.  Yet  it 
repented  none  to  have  come  thither  and  to 
have  heerd  agen  the  mournful  histories  of  the 
faire  Elaine,  for  this  play  teecheth  us  how 
deare  a  thing  is  woman's  love  and  how  that 
none  fear  of  death  can  shake  it — nay,  that  she 


THE  TRAGEDIE  OF  ELAINE 

had  liefer  die  than  abate  one  jot  or  title 
thereof.  And  in  it  all  ther  ben  tendernesse 
and  herte  and  teres,  and  who  shall  speke  the 
full  goodness  of  these  things  ?  For  as  the 
herte  ben  the  sanctuary  of  men,  so  can  ther 
never  be  no  moe  swete  and  holie  thing  than 
that  whyche  toucheth  the  herte  and  openeth 
the  dores  thereof  and  entereth  therein  to  find 
lodgment. 

Godde  graunt  us  evereche  grace  to  hold 
steadfastly  unto  this  beleeve,  and  Godde  make 
us  men  all  worthy  of  that  love  whyche,  as  the 
story  of  Elaine  doth  shew,  despiseth  death 
and  endureth  all  things  for  our  sake. 


Blwags 


Don't  take  on  so,  Hiram, 

But  do  what  you're  told  to  do; 
It's  fair  to  suppose  that  yer  mother  knows 

A  heap  sight  more  than  you. 
I'll  allow  that  sometimes  her  way 

Don't  seem  the  wisest,  quite; 
But  the  easiest  way, 
When  she's  had  her  say, 

Is  to  reckon  your  mother  is  right. 

Courted  her  ten  long  winters  — 

Saw  her  to  singin'  school  — 
When  she  went  down  one  spell  to  town, 

I  cried  like  a  durned  ol'  fool; 
Got  mad  at  the  boys  for  callin' 

When  I  sparked  her  Sunday  night, 
But  she  said  she  knew 
A  thing  or  two, 

And  I  reckoned  your  mother  wuz  right. 

I  courted  till  I  wuz  aging 

And  she  wuz  past  her  prime  — 

I'd  have  died,  I  guess,  if  she  hadn't  said  yes 

When  I  popped  f'r  the  hundreth  time; 

135 


136       MR.  BILLINGS  OF  LOUISVILLE 

Said  she'd  never  have  took  me 
If  I  hadn't  stuck  so  tight — 

Opined  that  we 

Could  never  agree, 

And  I  reckon  yer  mother  wuz  right! 


.  Btllitujs  of  Xouf  sville 


There  are  times  in  one's  life  which  one  cannot 

forget, 

And  the  time  I  remember's  the  evening  I  met 
A  haughty  young  scion  of  bluegrass  renown 
Who  made  my  acquaintance  while  painting  the 

town; 

A  handshake,  a  cocktail,  a  smoker,  and  then 
Mr.  Billings  of  Louisville  touched  me  for  ten. 

There  flowed  in  his  brains  the  blue  blood  of  the 

south 

And  a  cynical  smile  curled  his  sensuous  mouth; 
But  he  quoted  from  Lanier  and  Poe  by  the  yard, 
But  his  purse  had  been  hit  by  the  war,  and  hit  hard  ; 
I  felt  that  he  honored  and  flattered  me  when 
Mr.  Billings  of  Louisville  touched  me  for  ten. 

I  wonder  that  never  again  since  that  night 
A  vision  of  Billings  has  hallowed  my  sight; 


THE  MIDWAY  137 

I  pine  for  the  sound  of  his  voice  and  thrill 
That  comes  with  the  touch  of  a  ten-dollar  bill  ; 
I  wonder  and  pine,  for  —  I  say  it  again  — 
Mr.  Billings  of  Louisville  touched  me  for  ten. 

I've  heard  of  what  old  Whittier  sung  of  Miss 

Maud— 

But  all  such  philosophy's  nothing  but  fraud 
To  one  who's  a  bear  in  Chicago  today, 
With  wheat  going  up  and  the  devil  to  pay, 
These  words  are  the  saddest  of  tongue  or  of  pen  : 
"Mr.  Billings  of  Louisville  touched  me  for  ten/' 


ttbe 


The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast 
As  through  the  World's  Fair  portal  passed 
A  certain  Adlai  Stevenson, 
Whose  bead-like  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
The  Midway. 

He  was  the  very  favorite  son 
Of  proud,  immortal  Bloomington; 
And  hankering  for  forbidden  joys, 
He  pined  to  whoop  up  with  the  boys 
The  Midway. 


138  INTER-STATE  COMMERCE 

"Try  not  those  fakes,"  a  stranger  said, 
"Unless  you're  hankering  to  be  bled!" 
Alas,  these  words  were  all  for  naught — 
With  still  more  fervor  Adlai  sought 

The  Midway. 

"Beware  the  divers  games  of  chance, 
Beware  that  Street -in-Cairo  dance!" 
All  in  vain  this  warning  cry, 
Old  Adlai  whooped,  as  he  sailed  by, 

The  Midway. 

But  why  pursue  this  harrowing  tale? 
Far  better  we  should  drop  the  veil 
Of  secrecy  before  begin 
His  exploits  in  that  Vale  of  Sin, 
The  Midway. 


Interstate  Commerce 
*• 

In  'eighty-six  right  evil  tricks 

Reformers  sought  to  play; 
They  formed  a  pool  wherewith  to  fool 

The  state  that  had  to  pay. 

With  divers  winks  and  smiles,  methinks, 
One  Rees  the  pillage  planned — 

And  as  for  Clen  (that  best  of  men).' 
He  took  a  quiet  hand. 


INTER-STATE  COMMERCE  *39 

He  argued  so  (by  which  you'll  know 
A  godly  man  was  he) : 

"Quite  different  things  are  pools  from  rings— 
This  pool's  the  thing  for  me! 

"For  years  I've  been  a  foe  to  sin — 

I  find  it  does  not  pay; 
I'll  share  your  guile  a  little  while, 

But  am  not  in  to  stay! 

"When  breezes  blow  and  blasts  of  woe 

Seem  threatening  every  minute, 
I'll  skip  the  game  to  save  my  name 

And  swear  I  wasn't  in  it!" 

'Twas  thus  to  each  his  cautious  speech 

In  godly  phrases  ran; 
"Whate'er  betide,"  the  others  cried, 

We'll  "save  the  honest  man!" 

The  crash  has  come  and  there  are  some 
Who  thinks  that  Clen's  to  blame, 

But  Rees  et  al,  defend  their  pal, 
And  bless  his  righteous  name. 

And  Clen  denies  and  rolls  his  eyes 

In  fashion  most  dejected; 
It's  hard  on  Clen  when  godly  men 

Are  not  from  wrath  protected. 


ffisberman 


Fisherman  Jim  lived  on  a  hill 

With  his  bonnie  wife  an'  his  little  boys; 
'Twuz  "  Blow,  ye  winds,  as  blow  ye  will  — 

Naught  we  reck  of  your  cold  and  noise!'* 

For  happy  and  warm  were  he  an'  his, 
And  he  handled  his  kids  upon  his  knee 
To  the  song  of  the  sea. 

Fisherman  Jim  would  sail  all  day, 

But  when  come  night  upon  the  sands 
His  little  kids  ran  from  their  play, 

Callin'  to  him  an'  wavin'  their  hands; 
Though  the  wind  was  fresh  and  the  sea  was 

high, 

He'd  hear  'em  —  you  bet  —  above  the  roar 
Of  the  waves  on  the  shore! 

Once  Fisherman  Jim  sailed  into  the  bay 
As  the  sun  went  down  in  a  cloudy  sky, 

And  never  a  kid  saw  he  at  play, 

And  he  listened  in  vain  for  the  welcoming  cry  , 
In  his  little  house  he  learned  it  all, 

And  he  clinched  his  hands  and  he  bowed  his  head  — 

"The  fever!''  they  said. 

140 


FISHERMAN  JIM'S  KIDS  141 

'Twuz  a  pitiful  sight  for  Fisherman  Jim 
With  them  darlin's  a-dyin'  afore  his  eyes, 

A-stretchin'  their  wee  hands  out  to  him 

An'  a-breakin'  his  heart  with  the  old-time  cries 
He  had  heered  so  often  upon  the  sands, 

For  they  thought  they  wuz  helpin'  his  boat  ashore, 

Till  they  spoke  no  more. 

But  Fisherman  Jim  lived  on  and  on, 

Castin'  his  nets  an'  sailin'  the  sea: 
As  a  man  will  live  when  his  heart  is  gone 

Fisherman  Jim  lived  hopelessly, 

Till  once  in  those  years  they  come  an*  said: 
"Old  Fisherman  Jim  is  powerful  sick — 
Go  to  him  quick!" 

Then  Fisherman  Jim  says  he  to  me: 

"It's  a  long,  long  cruise — you — understand — 
But  over  beyont  the  ragin'  sea 

I  kin  see  my  boys  on  the  shinin'  sand 
Waitin'  to  help  this  ol'  hulk  ashore 
Just  as  they  used  to — ah,  mate,  you  know! 
In  the  long  ago." 

No,  sir!  he  wuzn't  af eared  to  die; 

For  all  night  long  he  seemed  to  see 
His  little  boys  of  the  days  gone  by 

An'  to  hear  sweet  voices  forgot  by  me; 
"They're  holdin'  me  by  the  hands!"  he  cried, 
An'  so  he  died. 


1Ret>.  Sam  Small  ano  TCex>.  Sam  Jones 
*• 

I. 

"  I'll  never  chaw  terbacker — no, 
Nor  smoke,  nor  snuff  at  all! 

Folks  say  it  is  a  deadly  sin," 
Says  Rev.  Samuel  Small. 

II. 

But  lo!  as  if  in  answer  to 
His  partner's  chiding  tones: 

"I  shaw  terbacker,  and  I  smoke! 
Says  Rev.  Samuel  Jones. 

III. 

But  seeing  how  the  Rev.  Small 

And  other  folks  did  scoff 
Because  he  used  the  filthy  weed, 

The  Rev.  Jones  swore  off. 

IV. 

So  glory  be  to  Small  and  Jones, 
Those  best  of  preacher-men, 

And  let  us  pray  that,  since  they're  off, 
They'll  not  swear  on  again. 
143 


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